


Here, Have A Gun

by heyitsamorette (AmoretteHD)



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, M/M, Prisoner John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-13 01:23:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9100336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmoretteHD/pseuds/heyitsamorette
Summary: John Blake, rookie detective, is left with Batman's job now that Bruce Wayne is dead. The terrorist Bane has disappeared after the fighting broke out, but the Gotham P.D. has managed to round up and incarcerate some of his men, hoping one of them knows where he is. John is grieving Bruce Wayne's death, struggling to cope with complicated feelings about the man who saved the city and was his personal idol for so long. He knows following in his footsteps is a great honor, but the pressure is also staggering.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prisoner!fic and romance set in the universe of Christopher Nolan's Batman, taking place after the events in Dark Knight Rises. 
> 
> Oceaxe is gorgeous and fantastic and wonderful for betaing this. I will try my absolute hardest to update each week. Any comments or feedback are ♥
> 
> Questions? Contact me on tumblr: [@heyitsamorette](https://heyitsamorette.tumblr.com/)

X

 

John looked at his phone when it beeped, smiling when he saw the text from Commissioner Gordon.

_“Of course we will have you back. Come by the precinct and we can talk.”_

Good, so Gordon wasn’t angry that John had so abruptly quit the force. Deep down, John knew he wouldn’t be, but there was something relieving about having it in black and white.

Things seemed almost normal again. The precinct bustled with activity all around him. Old colleagues nodded as they passed him, phones rang from detectives’ desks, and even laughter bubbled from one corner of the room. John found himself breathing easier, a weight lifting off his shoulders from being in the familiar environment. It almost felt as if there had never been a bomb about to incinerate the whole city two weeks ago.

When he entered Gordon’s office, John found him reading the newspaper with a steaming mug of coffee by his side. The commissioner was the only one who didn’t appear to be back to his old self. When the door creaked to announce John’s arrival, he looked up with a very furrowed brow.

He tried to crack a smile in greeting. “John, come on in. Please shut the door behind you.”

“How are you, Commissioner?” He gently shut the door and took the seat opposite Gordon’s desk. “You look... Well honestly I’d have expected you to look better. Aren’t you getting any sleep?”

Gordon pressed his lips together. “We’ll get to me later. Right now I want to hear about you.” He folded the paper and set it aside on his desk. “What made you decide you wanted to rejoin the force? Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled to have you back. You know I didn’t want you to leave in the first place. But you seemed so disheartened last time we spoke. What was it you said? Something about structures… shackles…”

John smirked. “I was only quoting you, sir.”

Gordon nodded and sank back into his seat. He looked far too weary for someone who had just defeated one of the worst villains in Gotham.

“The truth is,” John continued, ignoring his concerns for the moment, “I think I’d do the most good being in league with the police.” When Gordon shot him a questioning, raised eyebrow, he went on. “Ever since I was a kid, I’ve wanted nothing more than to join forces with Batman. I dreamed of helping him protect this city. And now, I have the chance.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, even though it was clear no one could hear them in this office. “Bruce left me everything in his bat cave. All his weapons, his connections to Fox, his cars and planes, his suit…”

Gordon frowned and opened his mouth as if to interrupt, but John hastened his speech.

“But I was thinking about things lately, and you know what? Batman always did everything on his own. Which was fine by Bruce, he was always an outsider. He never really trusted the police, did he?”

“Bruce and I,” Gordon said slowly, “had some differences in methodology.”

“Exactly. And, I don’t know, maybe because being in that cave makes you feel like you’re hundreds of miles under the Earth, isolated from everyone; or maybe it’s all the bats flying around in that place; it hit me a few days ago just how alone he was. Bruce was almost always alone.”

Gordon nodded. “He prefered it that way.”

“Well, I don’t know if that’s how I want to be. Joining with the police might actually help me get more done.”

“To be fair to Bruce, he did work with us, in his own way.”

“I know, and I’m not saying I don’t admire the shit out of him.” The memory hit him of being fourteen and standing on the steps of his orphanage waiting for his new foster parents to come pick him up, and the black limo driving up, Bruce stepping out, slick hair and sharp suit. He would visit the orphanage sometimes with the foundation director. John swallowed as something heavy formed in his throat. “He’s always been a role model for me. Hell, he still is.”

Gordon’s eyes shone with something knowing, and for some reason it made John feel restless. Perhaps he should get to the point.

“All I’m saying is, I want to try working from the inside, not from the outside. At least for now. See how it goes.”

“And I’m glad you do. You’ve proven yourself to be one of our best officers and detectives, Blake.”

“No more rookie?” John smiled wryly.

“Oh, I didn’t say that.” There was a sense of teasing underneath his air of constant solemnity. “Do you think you’ve got nothing else to learn now that you’re the new Batman?”

He felt the blush creep hotly to his cheeks. “I’m not the new Batman. I’m just me.” First of all, he wasn’t used to thinking of himself as Batman, let alone being referred to that way. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be Batman. No one could take Bruce Wayne’s place, especially not him. Bruce was iconic, he was larger than life, he was everything.

Second, he realized they weren’t going to let him lose his rookie status just yet. So the ribbing and the chafing would continue. John sighed and wondered if maybe Bruce knew what he was doing hiding down there in that cave.

 

X

 

So he was going to work with the police to fight crime. Just like he’d always done. He figured by combining forces, they would be much more successful, as opposed to fighting against one another and getting in each other’s way.

To be honest, he was excited to go back to his old routines. Routines were comforting. Doing rounds with his old partner made him feel like things were just as they had been before the threat of Bane and his men, and of course the bomb. They checked out the usual neighborhoods, which were already slowly being rebuilt. Not that Gotham had ever been pretty or polished. That wasn’t his city and he wouldn’t have it that way either. But the mercenaries did leave it more noticeably crumbling.

However, there was something else about routines that John noticed not a week later. They were boring.

He approached Gordon in the rec room. “I didn’t come back to waste my time checking the same neighborhoods over and over again. I’m a detective now, remember? Give me an assignment.”

Gordon was chewing a ham and cheese sandwich with wilted-looking lettuce sticking out from between the bread. “You call the work that cops do a waste of time?”

“No… That’s not…” He sighed heavily as guilt poked him. “That’s not what I meant.”

Picking up his sandwich, Gordon said, “Follow me.”

They went into his office, and like before, John shut the door and made sure the yellowing blinds were drawn. Perhaps Gordon did have something for him. He noticed again how tired Gordon looked.

“You said you would tell me what was wrong,” John said as he took a seat.

“Yes, I think the time has come for that. And if you’re going to be the Batman, I’m going to have to trust you with some higher intel.”

John wanted to correct him again about calling him the Batman, which he _wasn’t_ , but he let it go in favor of hearing Gordon’s story, too eager to interrupt him.

“There’s something you should know,” Gordon began. “When we rounded up the dead bodies in front of city hall—” He looked up at John. “The fighting that broke out there was the worst.”

“I know.” John nodded to show he was with him. He hadn’t been there himself but that didn’t mean he wasn’t fully aware of what had gone on. Besides, he’d seen the countless news broadcasts and read the articles.

“A lot of Bane’s men had fallen, and many more were wounded. We managed to round up a lot of them. We have quite a few of them in custody, as you probably know or have heard from your peers.” Even though that was good news, there was something distressing in Gordon’s eyes that made them as grey as an old man’s.

It dawned on John, sending a sharp sensation almost like a chill down his arms. “You didn’t find Bane.”

Gordon sighed, shaking his head. “We’ve kept quiet about it and let everyone assume he’s dead, that Batman killed him. That we disposed of the body. But the truth is, there was no body.”

“Everyone’s so happy to be safe again.”

“Yes. I think that’s why no one’s questioned Bane’s whereabouts. Look at everyone out there,” Gordon said as he nodded toward the door. “They’re just glad it’s over. It’s easy to assume he was one of the dead we buried when you’ve just avoided being blown up. Saved again by Batman. It’s good that no one suspects.”

John swallowed. This is what’s been bothering Gordon all this time and weighing so heavily on him. And truthfully, it was a terrifying thought. Bane, that absolute monster, was loose somewhere right now. “So, what are you going to do?”

“We have been questioning everyone in custody these last few weeks. Everyone who we know is connected to him.”

“You and the senior detectives?”

“Yes. And now, you.”

John’s heart raced and he straightened his back. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

“You have access to Batman’s database?”

John nodded.

Gordon turned in his chair toward the bookcase behind him and pulled out an inconspicuous black binder from the shelf. He laid the binder on his desk on top of various other paperwork and opened it. From inside, he pulled out a manilla folder with only the words CONFIDENTIAL written in black marker on the front.

“We’ve questioned everyone four times already,” he said as he spread out the papers that were in the folder. John pulled his chair closer and leaned down to see. Each paper contained a name and a small amount of basic information, and stapled to each one was a mugshot. “Here are the men we think are most likely to be connected to Bane. None of them gave us much, of course, but from what we did get, we suspect these are his main men. His closest followers. The majority are just ruffians, but these men,” he said, tapping the papers. “One of these men is his second in command.”

John reached out to spread the pages, peering carefully at each photo. He didn’t recognize any of them.

“Run their names through the database,” Gordon said. “See if anything comes up.”

 

X

 

If John had known how to use the huge mega-computer in Bruce’s cave, that wouldn’t have been a very long task. He wished Alfred were around, since he would obviously know how to at least turn the thing on. John clicked buttons, fiddled with wires, and finally he slammed his fist into the keyboard and dislodged one of the keys. The J. For jackass, because that was really mature. After chiding himself thoroughly, he forced himself to take some deep breaths and sank back in the chair.

Relax, he told himself. Just think.

There was a drawer on the far end of the desk, and John pulled it open. He didn’t know what the hell he was looking for, but he might as well look. Likely he wouldn’t find anything of use, but he never knew. Besides, he was curious.

Being in the cave was like being closer to Bruce, and that made John feel warm all over. The place was gloomy and damp, and the bats scared the shit out of him every time they jumped out of a nook or cranny and surprised him. It was like the place was haunted. Haunted with the dark, brooding essence of Bruce. John felt like the man was all around him.

He had always wanted to get to know more about Bruce, in a personal way. Just to get to know who he was, what he was like when he wasn’t miserably reclusive and hiding from the world. John figured it was normal to want to know certain things about someone you admired so much. And Bruce had left this place to him, so anything John found that was maybe a bit too personal, well, that wasn’t even his fault since Bruce had left it here.

The drawer was messy, full of knick knacks and ripped pieces of paper with scribbled notes. John sifted through it, moving things aside, and his fingers encountered the smooth paper of a photograph. He picked it up, staring at the smiling face of a much younger-looking Bruce dancing with a beautiful woman John didn’t recognize. Or maybe Bruce wasn’t younger, just less stressed. He certainly looked happy in the picture, wearing a huge grin and staring adoringly at the woman.

The photograph caused a stinging in John’s chest, which annoyed him so he put it aside. It was probably just hard for him to see Bruce so happy and to know how fleeting that moment was for the perpetually tortured man.

He rummaged through the drawer again, this time taking a look at the notes. They were almost intelligible, penned in a scratchy scrawl. But then he found a business card. On it, the name Lucius Fox: Enterprise Solutions, followed by a phone number and e-mail address.

John grinned and withdrew his cell phone from his pocket.

Fox arrived at the cave surprisingly fast. He chuckled over the phone when John had asked him if he wanted to take down the coordinates. Of course, Fox had probably built this place for Bruce, he would know better than most people where it was. John vowed that when he arrived, John would try not to sound like such a naive rookie; a reputation which seemed to follow him everywhere.

“Mr. Fox.” He held out his hand, and Fox shook it. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

Fox wore a long black coat and walked toward the mega-computer with his hands clasp together behind him. “I’m happy to help anyone Bruce deemed worthy enough to take this all on.”

His words brought back that warm feeling in John’s stomach.

“Well,” John said, “here’s hoping he knew what he was doing.”

“You need my help with this?” Fox was looking at the computer.

“Yes. I can’t figure the damn thing out. I’ve been trying for over an hour to turn it—”

Fox reached behind the huge black screen and clicked something, and the whole thing lit up.

“...On,” John muttered, and pressed his lips together.

“He told me who you are, John Blake,” Fox said with a smile. “A passionate young police officer—”

“Detective.”

“Detective.” Fox nodded politely. “Someone who could do the role proud. I was prepared to receive your phone call.”

“Did you make most of the equipment in here?”

“I sourced it. Like this computer, for example. My firm designed it especially for Bruce and his very unique needs. I can show you how to use it.”

“Thank you, sir.” It was a relief to have Fox here. It was good to have someone whom he could talk to about these things; someone who completely understood what he was doing and what he might need. He had helped Bruce, and anyone who helped Bruce was a sure friend of John’s.

Fox pulled up a chair and sat beside him, helping him research each of the prisoners in Gordon’s file. John had the pages spread out in front of them and he jotted down notes for Gordon on each one.

“They all sound the same,” he said after the seventh profile yielded nothing of particular interest. “Most of them are from Eastern Europe or Asia and each of them has been incarcerated at least once. I don’t know how we’re going to find out if any of them is connected to Bane.”

Gordon was right about Bruce’s database; it brought up a lot of information that the Gotham Police Department simply wouldn’t have access to. Some of the prisoners had CIA files attached to their profile, and when opened they showed connections to gangs, secret terrorist organizations John had never heard of, or foreign warlords. So far, none of those warlords were Bane.

“Let’s look at the last one,” Fox said, eyeing the man’s picture with narrowed eyes. “There’s something about this one that strikes me as familiar.”

John looked at the file. On the top where the name should have been, it said, UNIDENTIFIED.

“He didn’t even tell them his name?”

“Must be tough, this one. Doesn’t speak under pressure.”

“The interrogators must not have been hard enough on him.”

Fox raised his eyebrows. “And you would go harder on him?”

“I didn’t say that.” John thought about Bruce. “How _do_ you get someone to talk when they just won’t? I mean, what would Batman do?”

“I’m not sure.” Fox looked past him, like he was considering it. “Bruce never cared for torture. Although he was rather heavy handed, and he did like guns.”

John laughed. He looked back down at the no-named man and scanned the rest of the report. It was the most sparing one. Clearly this man knew how to hold his tongue, or maybe he just had the most to hide.

“How do we search for someone if we don’t have a name?”

Fox took over and went to the search bar, typing in the letters B-A-N-E. A profile similar to the others appeared, and Bane’s masked face stared out from the screen. John’s heart sped up, embarrassingly. He wasn’t afraid of a picture, that would be ridiculous. But looking at it did feel like Bane was staring right into his eyes.

“He’s… really something, isn’t he?”

Fox chuckled.

For a moment, he wished Fox wasn’t there. He had the strange desire to peruse Bane’s profile at length. He wanted to know everything there was to know about him. There was a surprising amount of information, and John itched to lose himself in it, to read every scanned newspaper clipping and every police report loaded into the database. Maybe when Fox was gone, John could go back and search Bane in private. Read his profile in depth. There was nothing wrong with that, it was his job to stay abreast of this case, so researching Bane was not a strange thing to do.

Fox clicked through a few things on the screen until he opened a sort of album. There were hundreds of pictures, some of Bane alone, some of Bane with other people. He always stood out and towered among his companions, which was no surprise as he was probably the biggest man John had ever seen.

“Does he always wear the mask?”

“As far as I know.” Fox scrolled through some pictures. “There.”

John looked at the grainy image. Bane stood in front of a large vehicle that resembled a tank. He wore a heavy looking artillery vest and his ghastly mask. A man stood next to him dressed in similar military garb and carrying an assault rifle. John squinted at the man’s face.

“It’s him.”

“I believe so,” Fox said.

“Well,” John asked, anticipation lacing his voice now that it looked like they were getting somewhere, “how do we find out who he is?”

Fox enlarged the picture and hovered over the man’s face. With another click, a facial recognition program started scanning the image. John realized he was tapping his foot as the program continued to run, and he stopped. After a minute, the program brought up four different profiles, those of men whose face resembled the man from the image. Apparently it was too grainy to get a direct hit, and so it gave them options.

“That’s him.” John pointed to the third picture. It matched the mugshot in Gordon’s file. He read the name written underneath. “Barsad.”

Fox clicked his picture and opened up the profile. Like the one in the file, it was mostly bare.

“He’s like a ghost,” John said. The man’s face was expressionless, telling as little as his file did. But there was something in his eyes that sparkled, like whatever he was thinking was greatly amusing. John scanned his profile again and noticed something. “Look, it says he was in the League of Shadows.”

Again, the heart-racing feeling rose up in his chest. They were definitely getting somewhere. John was proud of his powers of observation, it’s what made him a good cop, and right now he was positive he had heard that name before. If he wasn’t mistaken, he had just found a clue.

Fox left soon after and John took advantage of the time to play around with the database. The thing was fascinating, there was all the information a detective could need here, and John felt like a kid in a candy store. He searched through everything the database had on the League of Shadows. There was so much. He felt like he’d never learn it all.

The League’s page brought him back inevitably to Bane. He found out Bane was banished from the League, one of the very few men who ever was. Was Bane even a man? Looking at him, it was hard to imagine he was. Everything about him—his face, his bulk, his stature—struck nothing but fear. Not in him, John told himself, but in most people. The fact that Bane was so imposing made John want to face him even more. He could do it. He would hold his ground in front of Bane. If Batman could do it…

His eyes were burning by the time he decided he had stared at the screen long enough. He had already found, on a previous visit, one of the secret exits that wasn’t through the waterfall, and by the time he went through it and returned to the city, he realized night had fallen. There was nothing he wanted more than to fall into bed.

But once he got there, sleep wouldn’t come. His mind kept racing with images of Bane. John decided to take a shower to clear his head and calm his muscles, and maybe then he could relax enough to fall asleep. After all, he planned to wake up nice and early tomorrow to deliver his findings to Gordon.

He stayed in the shower a long time, until the steam overtook the air and swirled around him like a curtain. He tried to rub one out thinking it would release all the pent up energy he felt, but he kept going soft in his hand. His mind didn’t want to focus and kept getting distracted from that particular activity. It might be no use, and he hated nights like that. When he couldn’t even come, he ended up lying awake all night, agitated and unsatisfied. But his mind was just too jumbled with thoughts of this case.

Where the hell was Bane? From people’s reports, he was last spotted fighting Batman, but after that, his fate was unclear. John imagined what it must look like, Batman fighting a beast like Bane. How incongruous the picture. He wondered if Bruce looked at Bane and was scared. Probably not; Bruce was brave and he had faced so much more, it probably took ten times that to scare him.

A deep ache blossomed in the pit of his stomach, and he tried not to think of Bruce. Somehow despite his grief, he was hard again. He tried to keep his mind as clear as possible, focusing only on the slick sensation of his palm against his cock, the hot water trickling through his pubes and down his thighs. Eventually, he came, but it was without much pleasure.

If Bane was still in Gotham, they had to find him fast. John pulled the covers over himself as he wondered where Bane could possibly be hiding. The first place that came to mind was the sewers, but Gordon had confirmed they had already checked the whole length of them and they hadn’t found a single trace. They had checked most of the city. Maybe Bane wasn’t here after all.

And even if they could get this Barsad person to talk, what were the chances that he actually knew where Bane was? He was allowed no communication with the outside world; Bane could not have gotten a message to him. Maybe it was a waste of time focusing on Barsad.

But John was curious. There was something intriguing about Barsad and his stoic figure in all the pictures. Perhaps it was because he was a mystery, or perhaps it was because he was clearly very close to Bane. But John wanted a chance at him. He knew a lot now and maybe he could get him to talk. He didn’t realize that he was dozing off to sleep, but with all these thoughts in his head, he dreamed of artillery rifles, explosions, and shrapnel.

 

X

 

Gordon was not as eager about the idea as John would have liked him to be. And to be honest, that kind of pissed him off. He waved the file at Gordon, who sat at his desk looking just as chewed up and spit out as he usually did these days.

“You wanted me to look through this,” John reminded him, if a bit forcefully. He couldn’t help his anger spiking, and he didn’t really care much either. “Why’d you ask me on this case if you didn’t actually want me to help?”

“You have helped, you found out his name for us, ruled out the other prisoners. That’s going to assist us greatly.”

“Let me guess.” John threw the file on the desk. “You can take it from here?”

Gordon rubbed his creased forehead.

“Bruce chose me. He had confidence in me, so I can’t see why you don’t.”

“I have all the confidence in the world you will make a great senior detective.” Gordon paused. “One day.”

“Come on, Commissioner, you know I can do this.”

“You have only the most basic interrogation training.”

“And it will be enough.”

“Why do you want to talk to him anyway? What are you going to find out that my other men can’t?”

“Well, they all tried so far and failed, haven’t they? How do you know I won’t be better?”

It was a fair question, and he knew it when Gordon fell silent and simply eyed him for a long moment. Then Gordon stood up. “I suppose it won’t hurt.”

Gordon sat in the passenger’s seat while John drove to the prison. He had never properly interrogated anyone before—not with the whole stark room, bright light thing—but a sense of anticipation settled over him like a cloud. He knew Barsad had information on Bane, even if the man didn’t know Bane’s exact whereabouts. If John could get him to talk, they might be able to get something from him, and it might be something that helped.

They told the guards on duty which prisoner they were there to see, so one of the guards went to collect him and bring him to the interrogation room. John and Gordon waited in the main office until everything was ready. John paced, his mind full of the intel he had on Barsad. He kept going over his training, running through the instructions for basic interrogation technique, trying to formulate some sort of plan. Eventually, the guard came back and instructed them to follow.

There was something about Barsad sitting there in the room with his back straight and his head held high that almost unnerved John; but not for long and he eventually shook off the feeling. There was nothing to worry about from a man sitting on a chair with his hands cuffed behind him. It was just that look in Barsad’s eyes, as if he was amused to have information John wanted. As if by never letting anything slip, he was the one with the power.

John smiled because he loved cocky shits who thought they were smarter than him; it was fun to see the look on their faces when he proved them wrong. He wore his usual detective garb, a charcoal grey suit and a badge, and even though it might not have been as imposing as a police uniform, he felt pretty good about it. Gordon stood in the corner, quiet.

John stepped forward into the ring of light that illuminated the small table and the prisoner’s face. “Hello, Barsad,” he said conversationally. If Barsad was surprised John had discovered his name, he did not show it. His eyes continued to twinkle as ever. But no matter; John had more surprises up his sleeve. He took a step closer. “That is what they call you, isn’t it?”

Barsad said nothing, only betrayed a small twitch in his lips, like he was trying not to smile.

“My name’s John Blake. I’m here to ask you a few questions.”

Again, no response.

“You’ve been good at keeping quiet, but that didn’t matter in the end. We know about you.” John reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a photograph. Before he’d left, Fox had shown him how to use the printer. John laid the photo on the desk and turned it to face Barsad, sliding it over with one finger.

Barsad looked down at it for a moment, and then his eyes returned to meet John’s.

“You can’t tell us you don’t recognize the men in the picture.” It was the one Fox and he had studied, the grainy image of Barsad and Bane in front of the tank.

Barsad merely shrugged.

John huffed a laugh. Even as low quality as the image was, it was still clear enough that anyone could identify Bane. Anyone would recognize that mask. And Barsad was looking toward the direction of the camera wearing the same twinkling expression he wore in his mugshot. The identity of the two figures in the picture was evident enough.

“When was this? Hm?” John pressed. “I know when. It seems you’ve known Bane for a while, seeing as this was taken a year ago.”

He had him. Barsad stared him straight in the eye and John could tell his brain was working. But nothing he could say could get him out of this now.

Surprisingly, Barsad did speak. “That’s not me.”

“Ha! Right. It only looks exactly like you, but no, it’s not you. Of course.” John pointed at the taller figure. “And next you’re going to tell me that’s not Bane.”

Barsad shrugged again.

“Why don’t you cut the crap?”

“What for?”

Oh, Barsad was playing with him. Well, John didn’t have patience for games. “Tell us where Bane is and we can cut a deal.” Gordon shifted behind him, and John held his hand up. He didn’t break eye contact with Barsad.

It was obviously not protocol to offer deals so soon, and without sufficient evidence that the police department would get what they wanted out of it, but John felt deep down in his bones that Barsad and Bane were connected. If anyone knew where Bane was, or where to find him, it was Barsad. John didn’t know how he knew, he just did. It was probably the way Barsad always looked like he was ready to smirk, clearly harboring some secret.

“You will let me go?”

“Reduced prison time,” John offered. “And we can take you out of solitary confinement.”

“No deal.”

“You’re not really in a position to negotiate.”

“You want Bane, I want to leave. That sounds like a fine negotiation to me.” It was the first time John noticed his slight accent.

“So you admit you know where Bane is.”

A proper smile stretched Barsad’s lips. It almost made John shiver.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then why the hell would we let you go?” John put his hands flat on the table and leaned in. “I want Bane. That’s all I care about, do you understand? Finding Bane. If you can’t offer me that, then I can’t offer you a deal. Any kind of deal.”

Barsad stared at him for a moment. “Why do you want to find him?”

“I’m the one asking the questions here. Why I want him is none of your business.”

“He’s not here.”

“Oh? How do you know that?”

“I just know.”

“Are you conversing with the outside?”

Barsad shook his head like John was a silly little boy. “How many attacks have you seen these last weeks? He is not here.”

“That doesn’t mean he isn’t lying in wait. Maybe he wants to get his friend out of prison.”

“Bane knows better than that.” He elaborated when John raised an eyebrow. “He knows I sacrifice myself willingly to the cause. He has no need to come back.”

John snorted. Bane inspired loyalty in his followers, that much was clear. He wondered how much draw someone had to have in order to accomplish that; to get someone to sacrifice themselves for his cause. His men must truly admire him, maybe even worship him. It made him automatically think of Bruce—no, of Batman—and how John would follow him through anything.

The train of thought suddenly spiked his temper, and he realized he was getting nowhere with Barsad. He should change his line of questioning.

“Would he come back for a brother?” John asked, then waited for this to sink in.

Barsad’s eyes lost their twinkle and his face became a mask again. Shit, maybe it was the wrong change in tactic. He was making Barsad shut down; which was a shame considering this was the chattiest he’d probably been in any interrogation.

“I know what members of the League call each other,” John pressed, hoping he hadn’t just blown it but intent on continuing on this topic. “Brothers. I would think Bane would come back for you if you two shared such a strong connection.”

“You know nothing.”

“Maybe not.” John paced back and forth in front of the table. “But I do know a lot more than you think I do, at least about the League of Shadows.” He hid his smirk thinking about Bruce’s database and how much time he had spent last night reading up about the League. And Bruce had been in the League himself, something John found both fascinating and incongruous. How could Bruce have shared anything with these bunch of gunmen, thieves, and murderers?

“He will not come back.”

“Doesn’t brotherhood mean anything to you people?”

Barsad’s face remained impassive. John thought he was going silent again and that the interview might as well be over, but then he asked again, “Why do you want to find Bane?”

John decided to play along this time. At least he was talking. “In case you forgot, he nearly destroyed this city. If he’s anywhere close by, we want to apprehend him and bring him into custody.”

“You think he would waste more time on this wretched place?”

Sure, Gotham was gritty, but John wouldn’t go so far as to call it wretched. There was still some good in Gotham, something worth fighting for. Bruce didn’t die for nothing. “He did once. Maybe he’s biding his time. Maybe he wants payback.”

Barsad didn’t say anything. Perhaps he saw a point in what John said.

Just then a guard knocked on the door. Gordon went to see what he wanted, sticking his head out and speaking to the guard in low tones. John caught a word, and it was about something unrelated to this case but which demanded the commissioner’s attention. Gordon slipped outside with the guard; their silhouettes were black in the fogged glass window cut into the door.

John’s pulse raced and he looked down at Barsad. He hadn’t planned on doing this before he got here. Never thought he’d need to resort to it. But if he wanted to find Bane, this might be his only shot. And he was more than a detective now, more than a cop. He was supposed to be stepping into Bruce’s shoes. Bruce chose him for a reason. He wouldn’t have chosen him if he didn’t think John could handle this.

And besides, wasn’t this something Batman would do?

He looked back at Gordon once again, feeling firmly that this was his moment, and then leaned in to speak quietly and rapidly to Barsad.

“Look, I don’t want my commissioner to hear but… I know you can take me to Bane. What if we help each other out here?”

Barsad raised one eyebrow.

“I’ll come back tonight. Will you take me to him?”

Barsad’s lips parted, and he considered John. For his part, John looked back over his shoulder to check if Gordon was still preoccupied. It looked like he was creaking the door back open and coming back inside, and John almost stepped back from the table, but then Gordon paused and continued to speak to the guard. The door was still open a crack.

John turned back to Barsad, imploring him with his eyes to just hurry up and _say something_. Did he understand what John was saying? This was Barsad’s only chance to get out of prison; all he had to do was lead John to wherever Bane was hiding out.

Barsad nodded.

Exhaling, John straightened up, smoothing out the front of his suit. Gordon stepped into the room.

“Don’t shut the door,” John said. “We’re done here. He’s not going to say anything.”

 

X

 

He wasn’t an idiot. He knew this was an extremely reckless plan. So many things could go wrong. At the very least, Barsad could try to lead him in circles until he could find a way to escape John’s hold. That’s why John planned to keep him in handcuffs.

He also had a shitload of Batman’s weapons strapped to his person.

The guards didn’t question him when he returned that night, flashing he detective’s badge and claiming he needed to ask the prisoner a few more questions. It was a new shift but the new guard on duty checked in the log book and confirmed John had been there earlier, with the commissioner. And this was highly unusual behavior, John knew. But luckily, either because it sounded valid or they really just didn’t give a shit, they bought his story and brought Barsad back into the interrogation room.

This time, John was alone with him.

“How will you get me out?” Barsad asked.

“I have a few tricks up my sleeve. Just keep your mouth shut and follow me.”

Barsad did as he was told. He didn’t even seem bothered that John left him handcuffed and made him march in front. When they encountered the first guards in the hallway, John slipped a gas pill from his utility belt (which resembled a simple leather gun holster) and smacked it to the ground. He also retrieved a pair of paper masks like those a nurse might wear and slipped the first one over Barsad’s face before putting the second on himself. They had to leave fast because the flimsy masks, although they held out most of the sleeping gas, weren’t the most effective tools he’d brought.

Sweat was pooling on his forehead now. Truthfully, this hadn’t been his most well-ruminated plan. He didn’t know if anyone was watching the security cameras or if any alarms would ring. Basically he was just relying on Batman’s gadgets to get them out of there, hopefully with the least fuss possible. And of course, he wasn’t planning on actually hurting anyone.

Barsad seemed impressed with the gas, though. He stepped over a guard’s body and looked back at John and winked. Which only served to annoy him. John squeezed Barsad’s arm not so gently as he pushed him forward.

The next guards they encountered were those at the main office. They were similarly disposed of, as well as the security guards who worked the metal detectors.

“This was easy,” Barsad said as they walked through the front doors.

John pulled his own mask off before taking Barsad’s as well. He led them to his car, putting Barsad in first. Even though he placed him in the passenger’s seat and this was not a police car, he still put a hand on Barsad’s head, the way a cop would. Old habits die hard.

“Where do you take me?” Barsad still had his hands cuffed behind him.

John pulled out of the prison lot. “It’s not about where I’m taking you, but where you’re taking us. You said you would take me to Bane.”

“I said no such thing.”

John glared at him.

Barsad grinned toothily. “But if you insist.”

They drove for a long time. Neither of them spoke more than they had to, and the silence made it feel like much longer. Barsad told him to get on the freeway that led out of Gotham. John watched the clock as the first hour went by, and then the second.

“There’s no point in leading me nowhere,” he said. “I’ll just take you right back to prison and you’ll never get another chance again.”

Barsad continued to stare straight ahead, seemingly unfazed. “Don’t worry, John Blake. We will be there soon enough.”

He didn’t know why, but it was unsettling that Barsad had held onto his name.

After another hour, Barsad finally indicated an exit. John took the ramp and drove down the road a few miles before Barsad made him turn again, this time onto a dirt road. It started off smooth but then the path turned rocky and raw, and the ride was bumpy. Finally, some buildings came into sight.

“Shut the lights off,” Barsad said.

John complied. “What is this place?” It looked like an abandoned electric plant. He rolled to a stop before they reached a set of two large warehouses further down the path. “Bane’s here?”

Barsad nodded.

John reached into a duffle bag he had put in the back seat. Some of the bulkier weapons and tools from Batman’s cave, he had carried in that. He withdrew a pair of strangely shaped binoculars. Through them, he looked at the warehouses again, turning up the zoom with a small dial. He also pressed the x-ray view, and then he could see through the walls. One of the warehouses was empty. The other, however, contained orange figures moving around. He tried to count, but the sensor only identified heat and all the figures bled into each other. John’s heart sped up as he scanned the place, knowing what he was looking for. On one side stood another figure, bigger than the rest. John’s throat felt blocked and heavy just looking at it.

He set the binoculars down and saw that Barsad was staring at him curiously.

John ignored him and looked back at the warehouse, steeling himself. It had seemed like a strong enough plan earlier, but now his heart didn’t seem to want to stop hammering in his chest. He didn’t want Barsad to notice his alarm so he breathed as normally as he could. But suddenly it seemed impossible that he could don a few weapons, charge into a room of thugs and simply take them all down. And what the hell had made him think it would be easy to take down Bane?

How did Batman do this all the time?

Barsad continued to stare at him. John scowled and opened the door, getting out of the car and taking out the duffle bag. He had a myriad of weapons on his own person, but he also pulled out a large gun from the black bag. He wore black jeans and a black shirt. He took off his jacket, shoved it in the bag, and pulled out a pair of black gloves. Finally, he slipped on a simple black mask.

He turned around, gun in hand, and came face to face with Barsad.

“Wha—?”

He twisted away as Barsad’s fist came down. It hit the body of the car with a sickening thud of knuckles against metal. Heart hammering, John swung behind Barasd, aiming to take him from behind. But Barsad was quick. John didn’t know how it happened but he was suddenly eating dirt. He groaned and made to pick himself up off the ground.

A blunt force connected with the back of his skull, and then everything was black.


	2. Chapter 2

There was an ache in his abdomen. That’s all he could think before his mind came back to him and he remembered what happened. Panic flooded his system, coursing through his arms and legs and riling him into action. John struggled. He flailed and tried to move his arms but it was impossible because he was restrained. And kneeling.

And he couldn’t see shit. He breathed in, didn’t get much air and realized there was a bag over his head. There were loud stomps of feet and shouting voices all around him.

The bag was then ripped off and light assaulted his eyes. He winced, squinting at the bright flashlight that pointed right at him. It made him think of the interrogation room and how Barsad had been the one with a bright light in his face earlier that day.

And how the fuck had Barsad gotten uncuffed? John had profoundly underestimated him, and now the consequences of that surely meant the end of him.

He tried to quell the sudden rise of vomit in his throat. He didn’t want to die like this. Tricked.

The light fell away and John had to blink a few times to adjust his vision. When he finally did, it was not a pleasant sight. He was surrounded by men all standing in a semicircle around him. However, right in front of him stood Barsad, his eyes once again twinkling as he looked down at him, and next to him someone who was unmistakable. John scanned up his body, from the heavy boots to the cargo pants to the longsleeved black shirt under the utility vest. John swallowed when his eyes landed on the masked face.

Bane’s eyes had a similar amused look to Barsad’s. With his thumbs hooked in his vest, he took a step forward. John held very still, did not flinch away.

“What is this? A guest in our humble abode?” His voice was warped, almost machine like. It was the first time John had ever heard him speak, and he was not expecting it. He had pictured something much deeper, though somehow this was even more menacing. “One of Gotham’s finest no less.” He paused to let his men cackle.

Barsad stepped up to him and, in a low voice, said something in his ear. Bane inclined his head, since Barsad was at least a head shorter, and listened.

“Barsad tells me you come bearing gifts.” He motions to his men with his hand. “Strip him.”

Hands were all over him. John shouted and thrashed, kicking out with his feet toward whomever he could reach. He managed to trip two of them, roll onto his back, and hop up onto his feet before another man knocked him over the head from behind. John grunted as his kneecaps thumped painfully back down against the floor.

They tore off his jacket, taking a knife to the sleeves, and one of the men started patting it down for weapons. The others continued to roam their hands over John’s body, picking out whatever weapons they could. A gun strapped to his back, a knife tucked into his boot, the handful of sleeping gas pills he had shoved into his pocket. His boots came off and someone took them to be more thoroughly searched. Even his socks were stripped away. Then someone started undoing his pants. The sharp sound of the zipper sent another flurry of alarm bells ringing.

“No! Get off of me!” John struggled but that earned him another punch to the gut.

His shirt was torn easily from his chest at the same time that his pants were pulled down his legs. Soon he was only in his boxer briefs. The floor was dirty and grimy against his bare skin, the air all around him hot from the commotion of feuding bodies. Not to mention the heat that crept over him from the inside. Stripped naked in front of two dozen armed men, he had never felt so vulnerable.

The crowd stepped back and made room again. Two men picked him up and placed him back on his knees, one at each shoulder holding him down. A third man patted his ass over his boxers, and John could feel the disgust crawling up his spine. He numbed himself to the feeling of his junk being jostled when the guy reached the front. He wanted to spit out that they weren’t going to find anything there, but embarrassment constricted his throat.

Everything they had taken off of him was heaped at Bane’s feet.

“Thank you for the new weapons,” Bane said, admiring a gun-like laser shooter. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I didn’t.” John trembled, his anger momentarily overpowering all other emotions.

Bane ignored him. “It makes a pretty pile. Still, not enough to beat us with, was it?” His men whooped and laughed.

John searched out Barsad, looking him in the eye. If only he had restrained him more securely. It was his own fault that he was in this mess now, he thought bitterly. Everyone was right calling him a rookie; how could he have been so stupid?

When he looked up again, he found himself face to face with the end of Bane’s gun.

“What’s your name, detective?”

John breathed in deeply, avoiding looking at the gun. He raised his head and looked into Bane’s eyes. “What do you care? You’re gonna shoot me anyways.”

“I like to know the name of my enemies. Especially those who are as threatening as you.”

There was a roar of laughter among the men. John’s cheeks burned. He couldn’t possibly look less threatening, stripped to his boxers as he was.

He glared at Bane, biting out his reply. “My name’s John Blake.” Bane pressed the gun against his lips and John closed his eyes. The metal was cold. The two men holding onto him stepped away.

“John Blake,” Bane repeated his name while dragging the end of the gun across John’s mouth. “It was good of you to come, as we haven’t had much entertainment here. Will you play a game with us?”

The men made their approval known. John dreaded to know what “game” they’d have him play. No doubt something that would get him killed. Was Bane going to shoot at him while John dodged bullets? Or maybe something more simple, like fight John one on one? He prefered his chances with the former option.

He opened his eyes, trying to infuse them with as much venom as possible, and held Bane’s gaze. The mask covered his nose and mouth in fang-like tubing; but his eyes shone brightly.

“Show me how badly you don’t want me to shoot, and maybe I won’t.”

John did not understand. He stayed rigidly still. What did Bane expect him to do? Beg? That was not going to happen. If Bane wanted to reduce him to a pathetic, quivering mess, he was just going to have to be disappointed. John would rather he pull the trigger. So he braced himself, gritting his teeth, and waited for the moment to come.

Bane pushed the gun harder against his lips, and when it started to hurt, John instinctively opened his mouth. Just the tiniest bit. The tip of the barrel banged against his teeth. His lips stretched around the gun head, a perverted imitation of a kiss. He closed his eyes; when was Bane going to do it?

With more pressure, the gun intruded further into his mouth, and John had no choice but to accommodate it. Bane pushed the gun inside and it weighed heavily against his tongue. He tasted the _tang_ of metal and a bit of peppery gunpowder. He breathed rapidly through his nose.

Bane wasn’t pulling the trigger. John opened his eyes.

“Looks like he desires death,” Bane said, looking around at his men. “Shall I give it to him?”

There was a rumbling of mutterings. John couldn’t see all of them, his vision was blurry with panic. Not that anything could have made him look away from Bane’s monstrous face or from the gun in his mouth.

 _“Suck it!”_ came a cry from somewhere to his side. And that was it, the shouting commenced. From all around him were commands telling him to suck on the gun, to suck for his life. Bane’s eyes crinkled like he was smiling underneath the mask. Giving in to them would be worse than begging.

Bane pulled the gun out a fraction, the metal scraping against John’s teeth, before sliding it back in. This elicited laughter and whoops from the group.

Fuck Bane. Seriously, fuck him. John couldn’t bring himself to fellate Bane’s gun, the thought alone made his whole body burn with humiliation. But Bane kept pulling it out and shoving it back in, mimicking the motions for him, and the gun scraped painfully against John’s teeth. Without thinking, he wrapped his lips more securely around the barrel to avoid chipping a tooth. But that made it feel even more like he was…

Bane made a low grumbling noise, like a chuckling from deep in his throat. He continued the rhythm for so long, in and out and in and out, that when he stopped John leaned onto the barrel of his own accord.

He shut his eyes tightly. Bane pulled the gun out again, and John hesitated. He had a thought, and it wasn’t an encouraging one, that maybe Bane wasn’t going to stop until John did what he wanted: his brain told him to just go along with it. It was the part of his brain that concerned itself with his survival. He battled with himself. If John just did what Bane wanted, there was a chance Bane really wouldn’t pull the trigger. It was a slim chance, but at least it offered a spark of hope. The alternative? He could just continue to do nothing, and John was positive that if Bane got bored he’d shoot him.

His sense of shame stamped out by his survival instinct, John inhaled deeply and slowly slid his mouth over the barrel. It wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t hard. He pulled off to the end, then repeated the motion. He opened his mouth wide enough so that his lips only barely grazed the metal. He wondered how long he’d have to do this for Bane to be satisfied. He wondered what it was like for guys who did this all the time—sucked cock. Because that’s clearly what it was supposed to look like. Like he was sucking cock. Maybe Bane imagined it was his own cock. Then images of himself kneeling between Bane’s legs surfaced to his mind, and John stopped.

The worst part of it was the prickle of heat that crept through his groin. It was probably just residual embarrassment making its way through his entire body. He definitely wasn’t getting off on this—he wasn’t gay. His face felt flushed when he opened his eyes again and looked up at Bane.

He couldn’t read Bane’s eyes. They were stony. The only thing clear was that any previous mirth he might have been feeling was gone. Had John pissed him off somehow? He couldn’t tell what Bane was thinking but he definitely didn’t look happy. This was probably the moment. John’s shoulders stiffened.

And then Bane pulled the gun out of his mouth and lowered it. John began to cough even though nothing had gone into his throat. He felt such a surge of relief.

Everyone had stopped their hollering and gone quiet around him. Perhaps even they were surprised Bane hadn’t shot him.

“I’m a man of my word,” Bane said, “so you shall keep your life. For now.” He turned to look at Barsad. “Tie him to the pole. He will remain with us tonight until I decide what to do with him.”

Barsad gave a single nod and wordlessly walked over to John. He motioned to the men who had originally been holding him down, and they came and grabbed John under the arms, lifting him to his feet. The room swayed in front of him. They dragged him to a pole off to the side of the warehouse. Someone else yanked a short thread of chain over, clipped it to his handcuffs, which were still fastened behind his back, and then wrapped and secured the chain around the pole.

John sank down onto the dirty floor. The air on this side of the warehouse was cold against his bare skin. He prepared himself for an uncomfortable night.

Barsad leaned down and whispered in his ear. “Perhaps tomorrow you won’t be so lucky.” With a smirk, he left John alone.

 

X

 

To his immense relief, no one really bothered him throughout the night. He could tell when they were talking about him, but he didn’t understand the language they were speaking. It sounded like Arabic.

He tried not to think about what had happened. Everytime he did, his whole body felt paralyzed with shame. He was glad Bruce wasn’t alive to see what a mess John was, otherwise he would surely regret handing him the reigns—the responsibility—of following in Batman’s footsteps.

He wondered what Gordon would say, and another pang of regret went through him almost painfully. At this point, the prison guards would have woken up and discovered Barsad was missing. They’d inform Gordon of who had come to see Barsad last. The only upside was that they’d be out looking for him. Not that it was very likely they’d find him here, three hours outside Gotham in a random abandoned warehouse that wasn’t visible from the highway.

A few of the men looked at John for longer than was comfortable, and he tried to sit with his knees up, shielding as much of his body as he could. He prayed that they hadn’t gotten any ideas from his little display. His senses shot awake any time someone passed by him.

It was going to be a long night.

He didn’t get any sleep. Eventually the warehouse became quiet as the men began to doze off. Someone built a fire pit underneath some vents, but it was all the way on the other end of the building, and none of the warmth reached as far as John’s pole. The men slept around it in groups. The only people awake with John were two men acting as guards near the warehouse entrance. They slung their rifles over their shoulders and talked in their language; John listened to their low, rhythmic conversation for a long time. He tried to ignore the creeping cold and the draft from this side of the warehouse.

After a while, he realized he hadn’t seen Bane for some time. He didn’t recognize his hulking body among those silhouetted against the light from the fire. Where was he? It would make more sense that he’d feel safer without Bane’s presence, but somehow he didn’t. If anything, Bane’s absence unsettled him more.

A door from the back of the warehouse opened, and Barsad stepped through. So there was another room back there. That must be where Bane slept. Away from his men. A general.

If he even slept at all. Surely he must, he was a man too. John had to keep reminding himself: Bane was only a man.

Barsad’s eyes latched onto his, and John held his gaze. How had he sensed John looking at him from countless feet away? Barsad made his way toward him and John tensed, preparing for anything—a fight, a confrontation—but then Barsad passed by and continued onto the warehouse entrance. He stood with the other two guards, chatting with them for a while. Maybe Barsad didn’t sleep either.

The hours passed and the light shifted in the warehouse. It was a bleak, pale light that washed through the grime-covered windows. John watched the dawn break slowly through grey clouds.

 

X

 

They unchained him sometime in the early morning and threw a camouflage puffy coat at him, but nothing else. At this point he was shivering, so he pulled on the coat immediately and zipped it up, enjoying its warmth.

“Where are my clothes?” he demanded as they led him outside the warehouse and shoved him at a tree. “My cell?”

They were the same two men who had held him on his knees last night and who tied him up. He was starting to mentally refer to them as Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee.

“If you don’t want to piss, we can go to the car now,” said Dum.

Apparently he was never getting his clothes back. He sighed and turned around. He did need to relieve himself.

“Uncuff me.”

Dee stepped forward with the key. John hissed his relief at being able to move his arms. He shook them out to ease the cramping. Trying to ignore the fact that Dum and Dee were watching him, he pulled his dick out from the slit in his boxers and attempted to relax as much as possible.

Afterward they re-cuffed him—thankfully with arms in front—and led him around the back of the warehouse. There was a line of black SUVs and Jeeps all revved up and ready to go. John was led to an SUV and shoved inside. His two bodyguards sat on either side of him in the backseat.

“Where’s Bane?” he asked.

“Why?” Barsad turned to look at him from the passenger’s seat. “Do you want him for something?”

“I just want to know what’s going on.”

“You’re lucky he keeps you alive. Sit and shut up.”

Then a black bag was thrown over his head. He heard the gear being switched to drive and felt the car moving over the crunchy gravel.

He was thirsty. He was hungry. The bag cut out all light and he felt carsick because of it. But he did as Barsad said and kept his mouth shut. Eventually, being on the smooth highway for long enough became soothing and sleep overcame him.

He woke up when one of his guards shoved his head hard, and John jerked upright. Opening his eyes didn’t yield much information, and then he remembered he had a bag over his head. He heard a steady stream of Arabic near his ear, and then Barsad’s voice in English.

“He says you sleep like a damsel.”

John groaned. His head was pounding.

“And your head weighs three tons. You owe him a shoulder massage.”

Fuck these guys, he was not a damsel. Where were they going and how long had they been driving? Oh wait, he could no longer hear the steady rumbling of tires, so they weren’t driving anymore.

The car door opened and someone grabbed John’s arm and pulled him along. It was hard getting out of a car without being able to see anything. He didn’t know where his feet should go or if, at any moment, he would fall over. Luckily, his guide kept him upright. A hand roughly grabbed the back of his jacket and led him forward a few feet. He tried to walk as confidently as possible despite the bag over his head, having no choice but to trust the man leading him.

“Stairs,” said Barsad’s voice. So it was him; John had expected one of the body guards.

He climbed a set of stairs, managing miraculously not to trip, and felt his way over the threshold of a doorway. He was entering a building or a house of some kind. The front door slammed shut behind him, and it was only then that they removed the bag.

John looked around at a massive entrance hall. There was a black and white parquet floor and a grand staircase with ornately carved wooden railings.

“Move,” Barsad said, shoving him, and John moved on past the staircase and down a windowless hallway. However, his cop instincts kept him alert and observant. He looked through the doors they passed on his left and right and saw various herds of Bane’s men milling about. Their rough military presence was incongruous within the backdrop of the lavish mansion.

The hallway emerged into a large room lined with windows overlooking a terrace and massive gardens. It looked like a combination of living room and library, richly furnished with two seating areas. Barsad led John to the couches by a stone fireplace. Above the mantle was a painting of a familiar face. John’s heart started to speed up again as it dawned on him whose house this was. The Gotham P.D.’s intelligence was very familiar with the most famous (alleged) mob boss in the region.

So Bane somehow had connections to Regulus King. If he had the power of the mob behind him, there was almost no chance Gordon would find them, and a renewed sense of doom settled on John’s shoulders like dead weight.

The hearth was raised so that it was like a stone ledge, and that was where Barsad plopped him down.

“Sit here and don’t move,” he warned. John stared at him stonily until Barsad walked away. He crossed the room to the side with the bookcases and left through a different door than the one they came in.

He had to get out of here.

Unlike the other rooms, this one was empty. The sound of murmuring and the occasional bark of laughter drifted in, but otherwise John was totally alone. Barsad really expected him to not go anywhere? He couldn’t be that stupid. Perhaps he underestimated John, thinking he was too tired and afraid to disobey him. Maybe he assumed that John wouldn’t want to risk running into one of Bane’s gun-toting goons.

For those reasons, it gave him a strange sense of pleasure to get onto his feet and walk as quietly as he could over to the door. He couldn’t hear or see Barsad anywhere; it looked like he had just disappeared into another hallway. So the coast was clear, the only problem were his cuffed hands.

No matter. He legged it to the French doors that led to the terrace. With his handcuffed in front of him, he could still press down on the handle. It jiggled but didn’t budge. Of course, it was locked. He had to try another exit, but there were only two options. First, there was the way they had come in from that led to the entryway, but John knew Bane’s men had taken over that area of the house and they were armed and unlikely not to spot him. Second, there was the way Barsad had just exited, the doorway between two bookshelves that led to a mysterious hallway.

Heart racing, he approached the bookshelves again and stepped into the hall. There wasn’t really any logical reason he felt his chances were better this way; he just knew the first way held an immediate threat of guns.

He half-expected someone to emerge from around the corner up ahead at any moment, but no one did. Still, his senses were on high alert. He was glad he had no boots on, as his bare feet were quieter. Then he heard voices, and he slowed down as he approached them. The corner opened up on a dining room, and John only risked a quick glance around before ducking behind the wall again and listening; he had at least been able to register who it was.

Bane stood next to Regulus King, who sat at the head of the dining table. There was a breakfast spread laid out in front of him. Barsad stood near them with his hands clasped behind his back.

“But what would you give _me_?” King asked. He was a black man of about sixty with a grey beard and hair. He wore a quilted robe over pajama bottoms and slippers, as if the new arrivals had come too early and caught him off guard.

“I’ve given you more than enough over the years.” Bane’s voice sent shivers down John’s spine. His very presence did. “It’s time you repay me.”

“You do not consider a million dollars sufficient payment?”

“That was merely enough to arm my men.” Bane’s formal way of speaking was almost unsettling, like one would not expect someone so hulking and imposing to also be so articulate. “We could hardly carry out your dirty work without the proper equipment. Besides, I do not care about money.”

“No,” King said, his tone suspicious, “you never did. What do you want?”

“Wayne.”

John frowned, wondering if he had misheard. Did Bane mean Wayne as in _Bruce_ Wayne? That was impossible.

“What do you want with Wayne?” King asked, snorting. “He’s of no consequence anymore.”

“I have my reasons.”

“He won’t be getting in the way of Gotham, I can tell you that.”

“I know he won’t. But Gotham is of no concern to me anymore.”

King sighed. “Fine, but I don’t see what good the information will do you. Are you worried he will return? I highly doubt it. My men tell me he’s otherwise preoccupied.”

Yeah… because he was killed in the explosion. Saving the entire city. John’s throat tightened at the thought of him. King was right about one thing: Bruce was never coming back to Gotham.

“Good,” Bane said. “Then he won’t be expecting us.”

“I still think it’s a fruitless mission. You could stay here and do work for me. I can give you more than enough money for weapons and some left over. Besides, I could use a man like you.”

“I’m no one’s lackey. I do work that is meaningful.”

“And what’s so meaningful about finding Bruce Wayne?”

“Let’s just say he stole something from me—something I can never get back.” A growl edged his words. “He needs to pay.”

Just then, Barsad appeared from around the corner. John only had time to inhale sharply before Barsad’s gun pressed against his forehead. He was grinning but his eyes were dark.

“I thought I told you not to move.”

There was no thought involved when John ducked and rammed both fists together into Barsad’s stomach, only pure adrenaline. That police academy training had to be good for something. He bolted in the opposite direction as Barsad dropped to one knee. Down the hall, back into the library sitting room… but where was he going to go? The only place he could go was the back to the entrance hall, and that’s where his legs took him.

He rammed right into a tall, thin man who emerged from another room just as John ran by. Barsad’s running footsteps stopped right behind him.

“Stupid, stupid boy.”

Something hard and metal smashed into John’s head. Sparks swam before his eyes and sharp pain flourished where the butt of the gun hit him. He fell to his knees. The thin man stood gripped him by the hair and raised his head up, but John’s eyes swam and he could hardly see the man’s face. He was dehydrated, tired, and injured. His ears rang. The man was yelling at him but John wasn’t listening.

“He will kill you now for sure,” Barsad said in his ear. He was leaning down to pick him up. John let him, not finding the strength to fight. And what was the point anyway? “You have heard too much. Stupid boy.”

He heard the mechanized breathing before he even looked up. Bane stood in the doorway, outlined by light from the sitting room. He walked over to John, his boots thumping heavily on the floor. John thought he might throw up. He looked up into Bane’s eyes, trying to stare around the mask like one might avoid staring into the sun. Bane’s eyes were a steely, almost greyish blue.

“Tie him up.”

That was all he said before he walked back into the room. Barsad led him back to the fireplace, this time getting some rope which he attached to his handcuffs. He secured the other end to the mantle.

 

X

 

So John was tethered like a dog, but he had only himself to blame. What kind of an idiotic move was it try to just walk out of here? As if he could sneak past Barsad, whom he was starting to think was some kind of wizard. First he had escaped the police handcuffs last night, and then he had heard John snooping even though John hadn’t made a single sound. The man was not joking around.

It was only Barsad that seemed to pay him any attention, though. He came up to John about an hour later with a plastic bottle of water. John gripped it in two hands and drank three quarters of it in one go, crinkling it in his hands.

“Thanks,” he gasped, placing the rest of it on the mantle beside him. “Do you… I need the restroom.” He hated having to ask—didn’t want to feel like he was begging—but his bladder was going to burst. Especially now that he had finally gotten a drink; he wasn’t going to last much longer.

Barsad untied him and led him at gunpoint back through the main hallway, off of which was a small guest bath. He didn’t step out or shut the door. John exhaled and couldn’t be bothered to care, though it was weird that these people always opted to watch his piss.

When he was securely fastened back in his spot, his stomach grumbled audibly. John didn’t look at Barsad. He wasn’t going to ask for food.

And he didn’t get any. He was left alone in the room for what felt like hours. He just sat on the hearth, brooding over his stupidity. He replayed the conversation he had overheard between Bane and King—he tried to avoid thinking about what Barsad said about having heard too much, and that Bane would definitely kill him now.

Why were they talking as if Bruce was alive? King had referenced his men having spotted Bruce somewhere far from Gotham, but that wasn’t possible. They must have made a mistake, seen someone else, thought it was Bruce Wayne.

Now he knew what Bane’s plan was… sort of. He was after Bruce. He wanted to find him to get revenge on him for taking something from Bane. But what was that? Even if he assumed Bruce was alive—which he wasn’t—what could Bruce have stolen that meant so much to Bane that he was planning on hunting him down? Did he simply mean Bruce ‘stole his victory’ or something?

Bane was obviously functioning under misinformation. Which was probably fine, all things considered. John would rather Bane preoccupy himself with an impossible–and like King said, fruitless—mission than have him hanging around Gotham causing even more destruction and taking even more lives. Well, he would rather Bane be locked up, but if this was the second best option then he would take it.

No wonder Bane hadn’t been seen for weeks: he didn’t care about Gotham anymore, he said it himself. He was never planning to return to Gotham. John wished he could tell Gordon. How relieved would Gordon be to hear that; how the lines on his forehead would become smooth again. He wanted to be the one to give Gordon that peace, but instead John was directly contributing to his stress, and the man certainly didn’t need it.

The sun was setting outside, bathing the room in orange light. Parts of John’s body were going numb from sitting on the hard hearth for so long. He needed to move. He stood and walked a few paces back and forth, as far as the length of rope would allow him. No one had come in for hours; not Barsad or the other men, nor King or any of his. Since John was alone, he also laid on his back and did sit ups. Pacing, sit ups, pacing sit ups. Eventually, when he was sitting and watching the edge of the sun disappear, someone came into the room. It was the thin man he had bumped into earlier.

When the man spotted him, something in his eyes made John’s skin crawl. He didn’t like the way the man was looking at him, the way his eyes drifted from his face. Then two others showed up behind him, and John inwardly groaned. He stood up, glaring at them as all three of them approached.

“Hey, cop!” the thin man said. “They teach you how to use your mouth in the police department?” His friends laughed.

John grit his teeth. It was best not to respond. Not give them a reason to get aggressive.

“You looked good sucking that gun.” Another round of chuckles.

“You had practice?” said one of the friends.

“What’s wrong?” the thin man asked when John didn’t say anything. “Don’t be shy, cop.”

“We were wondering,” said the third guy, who sounded American, “why Bane decided to keep you alive. The only thing we can think of is that he got turned on by your little show.”

John breathed hard through his nose, but he tried really hard not to give in to the taunting. That was all this was, just some harmless taunting. They couldn’t know what Bane wanted with him. They were trying to rile him up and he couldn’t let them have the satisfaction.

“Maybe he wants you to suck something else,” said the thin man. He grinned widely. “You can practice now.” He reached up to touch John’s cheek.

John pushed his hand away with both of his own. The man stepped forward, and John squatted and lunged at him. But his rope wasn’t long enough to aid in the tackle and John got snapped back. The thin man’s friends rushed in, each grabbing John by one arm.

“Fuck off!” He thrashed back and forth to get them off but the thin man punched him in the gut. John made a keening sound and dropped to his knees.

The thin man grabbed a fist full of hair and forced John’s head back.

“If you bite me I’ll cut your tongue out.” With his other hand he started to unzip his pants. John couldn’t look. He shut his eyes tight. They were going to force him to do this. Panic made his heart race so fast he felt lightheaded.

That’s when Bane’s voice boomed through the room.

“Are you playing with something that isn’t yours?” he demanded.

The thin man turned but did not let go of John’s hair. Bane looked upon him, at his position on his knees, and at the thin man’s unzipped pants.

“I said no one was to touch him.”

“We weren’t going to hurt him. We were just—Ah!”

Bane had grabbed him by the throat, and the man’s face turned red as a turnip. Both hands flew to Bane’s fist as the man gurgled out breath. The men at John’s side unhanded him immediately.

John thought Bane was going to suffocate the thin man, until Bane let him go and the man dropped to the floor. He sputtered and gasped.

“Do not disobey me again.”

The man nodded, scrambling to his feet.

“Get out.” After the thin man had fled the room, his friends following close at his heels, Bane yelled, “Barsad!” That’s when John noticed Barsad standing silently by the door in the bookshelves. Barsad sauntered over at Bane’s call. “Take him to my room. And find him some proper clothes.”

Wordlessly, Barsad came and gathered John up. He untied him from the mantle and grabbed the back of his coat.

John shook him off. “I can walk.”


	3. Chapter 3

Bane’s room was up the grand staircase, which Barsad led him up at gunpoint. He relinquished his hold on John’s collar but that didn’t keep him from nudging a gun between John’s shoulder blades as they climbed each step. The bedroom they finally entered was spacious and modern, and actually consisted of three rooms: a sleeping area with a king size bed, a sitting area with a chaise lounge and flat screen tv, and an en suite bath.

“I will bring you clothes,” Barsad said.

“What about the ones I was wearing?”

Barsad shrugged.

John held up his hands. “Will you untie me first?”

Barsad didn’t respond, just turned and left. After he shut the door behind him, there was a click. He had locked John in.

John heaved a sigh and looked around the room again, taking in more detail. Opulent, but a bit 90’s luxe. The first thing he tried to ascertain was if there was anything sharp he could use as a weapon. If he was going to be sharing this room with Bane, he had to prepare to defend himself if need be. He couldn’t even imagine taking Bane on in a fight—tried not to imagine how easily Bane could pound his face in—but if it came to that, one thing was for sure: John was going to give him all he’d got.

There weren’t many things in the room he could utilize; it was grievously low on either sharp or blunt objects. For all that it was obviously luxurious, it was also minimal.

He gave up the search for the moment and went into the bathroom to have a look at himself in the mirror. Not bad. For not having slept much and for all he’d been through so far, he didn’t look overly haggard. Sure, his hair was sticking up oddly in places but he didn’t give a shit about that. His eyes were red-rimmed and shadows had started to form under them, but all in all, that was about it. His stomach chose that moment to growl, and he remembered he hadn’t eaten all day. He hadn’t even noticed, food being the last thing on his mind.

The door creaked on its hinges as it opened and John stepped out of the en suite to see that Barsad had returned. He carried a bundle with him.

Truth be told, John was glad for it, because he had been wearing just his boxers and this coat for hours now and he welcomed some more layers. Not only for the warmth, but for the decency. He wasn’t so into the idea of Bane seeing him half naked all the time.

Barsad tossed the clothes and a pair of shoes onto the chaise and grabbed John’s hands. Finally, he unlocked the handcuffs. John unconsciously rubbed his left wrist.

“Get dressed.”

“Where’d you find these?” John asked as he struggled to pull up the jeans that fit like they belonged to a fourteen year old.

“King has a son.”

John didn’t know if he should laugh or not. He pulled on the Nirvana band tee. In a way, being half-naked had been better. Everything was just slightly too small. The shirt was tight across his chest and biceps and the jeans barely buttoned after he got them over his ass. At least it wasn’t so uncomfortable that he couldn’t move around, though definitely tighter than what he usually wore. Luckily the Converse fit him just fine.

“Better?” Barsad wore a smirk.

So he found it amusing that John had been in his boxers all day. A renewed rush of anger came over him. He wondered if Barsad had enjoyed watching his buddies play with John downstairs.

“It is good you are in here now,” Barsad said, his eyes dragging over John’s body,  
“and not down there, like that.”

“Like what?” John’s fists clenched at his sides.

“You don’t hear what they say about you.”

“I wouldn’t understand them anyway.”

“They all want to fuck the cop.” Barsad’s grin stretched, and John stiffened, his stomach dropping sickly. “Put you in your place. And they talk about your face, and your mouth. You are soft to them.”

John glared at him. Shock and disgust seemed to choke him and he couldn’t even tell him to fuck off.

“Don’t worry,” Barsad said, catching on to his distress. “I won’t touch you.”

“Good,” John spat. “And I’m not soft.”

Barsad threw his head back, roaring with laughter. John’s cheeks heated up fiercely. He wondered if he could take him. Once the thought crossed his mind, John latched onto it and let its promise drive him. Barsad wasn’t much bigger than him, and right now he was distracted. He lunged.

He tackled Barsad to the floor, and just as he reached for Barsad’s arms to hold them down, Barsad kneed him in the groin. John grunted through the pain as he rolled off of him, but then Barsad gained the upper hand. His gun was on John’s forehead before he’d even opened his eyes.

Barsad was smirking. “You think you can fight me?”

John panted and he started to wonder if maybe he couldn’t. “How did you get out of my cuffs? Last night?”

After considering the question, Barsad lowered the gun and got to his feet. John quickly followed. “You want me to show you?” he asked, his tone almost playful.

It almost made John want to trust him. He was so absorbed by the humor in Barsad’s eyes he didn’t notice someone else had entered the room. Then Bane’s voice shook him.

“I wouldn’t let him, if I were you.” Bane strode in. His mere presence seemed to fill every inch of space. “He wants to break your thumbs.”

Barsad chuckled softly.

Bane walked up to him, and John stood his ground. He held John’s gaze as he spoke. “Barsad is specifically trained in escaping sticky situations. He can detach and reattach his thumbs at will. He can show you now if you like.”

“No need.” John believed him.

“Your police training has poorly prepared you for real fighting.”

So Bane had seen that.

“I can fight.”

Bane’s eyes crinkled, giving him the air of one smiling indulgently at a small child. “Just to prove to you that you are wrong, I will leave you unchained tonight. Brother,” he turned to Barsad, “leave us now.” Barsad nodded, gave John a final smirk, and shut the door behind him when he left. “If you try anything while I’m sleeping, you will see how sorely mistaken you are in your assessment of your skills.”

“You can kill me in your sleep. Got it.”

“Cheekiness will get you nowhere, either.” Bane walked away to pick up the remote for the tv. When he turned it on, it was tuned to a news channel. “Ah, just what I was looking for.”

The panic in Gotham concerning the missing prisoner and the missing detective played out on the screen as Bane began to undress. First he unbuckled the straps of his heavy-looking vest and slid it off his shoulders, walking with it to the bedroom. He tossed it on a nearby armchair and then worked on his shirt, tugging the hem from his cargo pants and peeling it off his torso. He finally pulled it over his head, exposing rippling back muscles and strong shoulders. By the time he began unlacing his boots, John wondered why he was still watching.

He finally had clothes on but Bane was taking his off. John decided he was going to sleep fully clothed tonight. On the chaise, since it was obvious the bed was not for him. He figured he was lucky to even have a chaise.

He went into the bathroom and shut the door. He turned on the cold water. It was heavenly as he splashed it all over his face. Then he cupped it in his hands and drank as much as he could, not fully realizing his thirst until that moment.

 

 

X

 

He thought he wasn’t going to be able to fall asleep, but it surprised him and overtook him deeply. Which was odd, considering Bane was two feet away in the other room breathing raspily throughout the night. For some reason, this did not weigh on him heavily enough to keep him awake. It must have been a testament to his exhaustion.

When John woke up, he was freezing. The tv was on but set to mute, the news playing in a silent collage of images. The shades were drawn and the room was comfortably dark. He pressed his face into the chaise, glorying in the feel of velvet upholstery against his skin. His stomach growled and spiked with pain, but he ignored it. He had to force himself to get up.

He peeked around the wall separating the bedroom portion of the suite from the sitting area and saw the bed empty. He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The bed sheets were crumpled and slept-in, the duvet hanging off the bed and partly on the floor.

Spotting the camo coat balled up in the corner, he threw it on to stave off the chill in the room. Then he sat down to think. If yesterday was anything to go by, Bane likely wouldn’t return for a while. Like before, they might plan to leave him alone most of the day. Which suited him well because it gave him time to figure out another escape plan.

He went to the window and pulled the string for the shade, and then looked down at the ground, judging the distance. He could never jump it, but he could try to hold on to the gutter and slide down the side of the brick facade. Beyond the gardens, there stretched an empty expanse of land. A quick jiggle of the window told him it was locked, so John looked around the room for anything he could use to pry it open. Like last night, he could find nothing to possibly utilize. He grit his teeth as frustration overwhelmed him, because he was a cop, god damn it. He was supposed to be trained, capable. And more than that, he was supposed to be Batman’s replacement. If he couldn’t even find his way out of a bedroom, how the fuck was he going to survive? In a moment of desperation, he entered the sleeping area and pulled the nightstand from its place. He needed to improvise.

John dragged it to the window. He was going to break the glass, bust his way out. Batman would have done the same. At least he thought so.

He was bent over gripping the bottom of the nightstand, preparing to heave it up, when his plan was thwarted once again. The thump of boots alerted him and he straightened up.

“Is that how you plan to escape here?” Bane sounded amused.

John scowled at him. “If it’s the only way.”

“You can try it and see if it works.”

“Well, I know it won’t now,” John muttered under his breath.

“You might be right. If you don’t run into one of men on the way off the grounds, you’ll find King’s guarding the periphery. Besides, I won’t let you go, John Blake. I need you.”

The way he said that send shivers down John’s arms. “What for?”

“For something very important. Besides, if I told you it wouldn’t be as entertaining.”

“Fuck you,” John spat, though he hated how petulant it made him sound. He needed to remain calm, collected, and in control. As cool and impenetrable as Barsad.

“I would have thought you’d be thanking me.” Bane came closer, and John had to tilt his head to look him in the eye. His body was… massive. John focused on his face and forced himself to look past the mask. “I could have left you downstairs. I could still do that, if you like. Maybe you prefer to be manhandled.”

John swallowed through his glare. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t particularly… but I happen to need you in one piece.”

What the fuck was he talking about? What was his plan? John recalled the conversation he had overheard about Bruce. Bane suffered under some delusion that Bruce was still alive, and he was hunting him down. But what else did he know, or thought he knew? Was he aware that Bruce had left John the Batcave in his will? Maybe all those weapons he confiscated were dead giveaway and Bane recognized them as Batman gear. So maybe he guessed. Still, John couldn’t see what that had to do with keeping him alive while they looked for Bruce.

“I don’t know where Bruce Wayne is, if that’s what you’re thinking. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Even if I threatened to kill you?”

John set his jaw. “I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Such loyalty,” he said appraisingly.

“Bruce died saving me and everyone else in Gotham! From you, I might add. If there’s anyone worthy of my loyalty it’s him.” Bane didn’t say anything; he turned to toward the bedroom. “He _is_ dead.”

“And you are so certain of this?”

Something painful settled in his throat. “I came to terms with it.”

“I asked you if you’re certain,” Bane said, reclining on the bed with his arms folded underneath his head, “not how you are coping with your emotions.”

“I saw it.”

“And yet, others continue to see _him_.”

John scoffed. “Well then they’re morons. And if you believe them…” He felt like he was approaching some sort of line. Bane no longer seemed amused by their conversation. His stance was more rigid, his voice more irritable.

“I do not need you to lead me to Wayne as I have much better sources, and I do not believe you know anything of value.” He sat up, making the mattress squeak. “The only thing you need to worry about is staying alive long enough to get there.”

John licked his lips, wondering how far he could push him. “Then I’ll need to eat once in awhile.”

“I said alive, not comfortable.”

John huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes.

“I will have Barsad bring you something.”

“I’ve noticed he does most of the grunt work.”

Bane’s eyes crinkled at the corners again. “He will be glad to know you think so.” John doubted it. Bane stood and walked back over to John. “I can send someone else. But I know Barsad will not fuck you when I’ve turned my back.”

John physically flinched. At the words, not at Bane’s proximity, which happened to be startlingly close all of the sudden. Barsad’s words from last night came back to him— _They talk about your face, and your mouth. You are soft to them_ —and he stepped backward, his back hitting the window.

“You are afraid.” He said it almost with fascination.

“No I’m not!”

Bane reached up, and John stiffened and blinked rapidly despite himself. But the back of his hand, large and heavy, only rested on John’s shoulder. His heart raced. He had been expecting Bane to hit him; just seeing his hand come up like that did scare him, though he would never admit that out loud. He stared up at Bane’s masked face. This close, he could see the fang-like tubing in detail.

He stood stock still as Bane pressed the backs of two fingers against John’s throat. His skin seemed to radiate heat from that spot down to John’s legs.

“Your body betrays you,” Bane said. He was feeling John’s pulse. He could feel his heart pounding against his chest.

John considered Bane’s face beneath the mask, trying to read him right back. It was nearly impossible. His eyes were bright, but betrayed nothing of his emotions.

“Why do you wear it?” John said. He tried to control his breathing. He didn’t want Bane to know how much his nerves spiked when he asked. But he found himself desperate to know.

Bane made a grumbling noise deep in his throat. He was a beast. “You really wish to know?”

John nodded, his chin brushing the thick fingers still resting against his throat.

“Then I will tell you.” His voice darkened. “Everyone thinks I was born in the pit, but I wasn’t. I was expelled into it. From deep within the depths of the Earth when the rocky soil split and poured me into the world from the steaming embers underneath. I was forged in the underworld. The air is poison to me; I can only breathe in sulfur.”

John’s lips parted.

Bane pulled his hand away and the crinkles returned to his eyes. A low rumble of laughter escaped his chest.

John frowned and exhaled hard through his nose. “Don’t fuck with me.”

“I know what is said about me. That I am not a man.” Bane strolled away with more of a jaunt in his step. “And I rather enjoy that story.”

 

 

X

 

He didn’t see Bane for the rest of the day. As predicted, he was left alone in the room, but he didn’t have the energy to think of another way out. Perhaps being famished had something to do with that. He paced, ran his hand through his hair, and paced some more. He wondered about Bane again, their conversation from last night entering his mind. He wondered what Bane’s face looked like under the mask. Maybe he mouth was all fucked up. Maybe he had broken teeth. The more he thought about it, the more horrifying images he came up with. He force himself to think about something else. Finally his attention narrowed on the huge shower with all the jets.

The hot water burned his skin and the steam choked him, but he needed it.

When he got out, towel wrapped around his waist, he found a plate sitting on the chaise. It contained only a plain ham sandwich but John jumped on it, devouring it in four bites. When he was done, he drank cold water from the bathroom sink. He was glad no one was around. He wouldn’t have been able to stand Barsad’s smirk as he watched him desperately wolf down the sandwich, and he was sure as hell not eager to see Bane’s other men anytime soon. Not after what happened by the fireplace; not with what they wanted.

A shiver of disgust ran through him.

He did push ups until his arms ached. He propped Bane’s pillow up on the tv stand and practiced his punches. He watched the news but it made him want to punch things other than pillows, so he put it on mute. When the stars came out, he laid on the chaise—having replaced the pillow—and waited for Bane to come back.

Since he couldn’t fall asleep as fast tonight, he noticed the chill. But he didn’t move.

When it got even later and Bane wasn’t back, he got up and got his coat.

An hour ticked by. He unmuted the tv and set it on low; the murmur of the newscasters’ voices dulled his mind. He fell asleep facing the door.

When he woke up in the morning the bed was the same, messed up sheets just as he remembered them, and the tv was still on. John got up, stretched out the kinks in his muscles, and went to the bathroom. Bane had not come back last night.

That day was shaping up to pass much the same way. This time he caught Barsad when he delivered the sandwich.

“You know, starving me isn’t going to accomplish anything.”

Barsad shoved the plate at his chest. “Here is your food.”

“I mean,” John said, accepting it and sitting on the chaise. He took a bite and said, “Maybe more than once a day.”

“I am not room service.” Barsad lingered while John took another bite of the sandwich, and John looked up. “I thought he was going to kill you.”

John swallowed. As Barsad left and locked the door again, he thought, _so did I._

He wondered how long they were going to stay here, in King’s mansion. How many days would he be confined to this room? As he imagined spending a week in here, the walls felt suddenly closer. He wondered where Bane was. Where had he been last night? Was he on some sort of mission? John needed to know what Bane was up to. He had to try and find out. Even if his manhunt for Bruce was futile, he and his band of murderers were sure to cause enough destruction along the way.

John distracted himself the rest of the day by alternately watching tv and working out.

When night fell, it started to rain. Even with his coat on, John felt the chill. The chaise felt hard underneath him tonight and he couldn’t relax. His mind obsessively returned to the problem at hand and he couldn’t stop thinking. Gordon was probably confused, not sure what happened, maybe even wondering if John betrayed him. That stung more than anything. Mr. Fox was probably ashamed to have shown John how to use the Batcave, thinking he was a pale imitation of the great Bruce Wayne. And what the hell would Bruce think if he were here to see this?

After a while, when Bane still hadn’t come, John eyed the bed. It was so big, and looked so much more comfortable than a chaise. He looked back at the door. He would give it another hour; if Bane didn’t return within that time, he likely wouldn’t at all.

Thirty minutes later, John crept over to the bed. He sighed when his head hit a proper pillow. Kicking off his shoes and letting them fall to the floor, he pulled the duvet over himself. After a few minutes, he threw off his coat. At least he’d get a proper night’s sleep tonight. Maybe some actual rest would help him figure shit out tomorrow.

If he was Bane’s prisoner and Bane was not going to kill him, John considered whether it would be better for him to just stay. Trying to escape had been a massive failure so far. Surely another opportunity would come up, but his thoughts returned to Bane’s plan. As long as John was around, maybe he could prevent the worst of it.

He hadn’t even realized he’d dozed off until a dip in the bed woke him.

John held his breath. _Bane_? He jolted awake. John’s back was turned to him and he tried not to move an inch. What was happening? Bane was supposed to be gone tonight. But now he was here, getting into the bed without so much as a word. Why wasn’t he slapping John awake and throwing him across the room?

The bed dipped further as Bane settled, lying over the duvet. John suddenly felt the need to throw it off as well. Where before the room had been freezing, now the air simmered. Bane’s body was so close to his, John didn’t want to so much as fidget, and risk touching him. Last time he slept here, Bane had removed his shirt. Had he done that again?

John stared at the wall as he listened to the sound of Bane’s breathing. Air forced through heavy metal. The steady rhythm, in and out.

 

 

X

 

Apparently Bane didn’t need much sleep, as he was gone by the time John woke up. The sky outside was bleary from the rain. John felt restless from the moment he opened his eyes. He got out of bed and went straight to the shower. The soap was on the already-wet tiled floor and a towel that was previously folded was hanging on a hook. Knowing Bane had used the shower before him did strange things to his mood.

He didn’t want to use the same bar of soap as the man who humiliated him and kidnapped him and who would kill him as soon as he realized his big plan wasn’t going to work. He thought all of these things as he lathered up his chest. For the first time since his imprisonment, his cock reminded him it was around and that he hadn’t rubbed one out in a few days, but he couldn’t let himself relax enough to go there.

He was going to go insane if he didn’t get out of this room.

“I want to come downstairs,” he told Barsad when he delivered his sandwich.

“Bane would not like that.” Barsad grinned. “You remember what happened last time.”

“I don’t need protection.”

Barsad gave him a look that said he very much doubted that, but then he shrugged. He reached into a pocket of his vest and pulled out the handcuffs.

“Really?”

“You want to come down, you wear these.”

He led John down the staircase at gunpoint, same way he had led him up. When they got to the bottom and a group of Bane’s men passed by, Barsad shoved the gun into John’s back and made him stumble down the last step. The men chuckled as they eyed John with glinting eyes.

So downstairs meant constant humiliation. He set his jaw; he could handle it. Being down here would give him a chance to look around and see what was going on.

Plus, he was bored as fuck.

He held his chin up and ignored the many stares he garnered as Barsad led him toward the library again. This time he dumped John on the couch, warning him against trying “anything stupid” before leaving him. Barsad then made his way through the French doors and onto the terrace. The moment John looked out there, he noticed Bane. Not that he was hard to miss. Bane was sitting on a sofa shaded with an umbrella, and on a chair beside him sat King. A maid in conservative dress was serving King a cocktail and finger sandwiches.

How did Bane eat? When did he eat? He must do it sometime, he was still a man.

King was facing the French doors so he looked up when Barsad exited to join them. He caught John’s eye through the glass. John held his gaze, and he didn’t return the small smile King gave him. King said something to Bane and nodded at John, but Bane didn’t so much as turn around.

Barsad picked up a plate of sandwiches from the maid’s cart and turned right back around. When he came inside, he dropped the plate on the coffee table in front of John, saying, “There,” and then sat down opposite him.

“Are you going to babysit me while I eat?” John picked up a tiny sandwich. It was surprisingly not as difficult as he thought it would be with handcuffs on. When he bit into it, he found out it was smoked salmon with chive mayonnaise. Not bad.

“If you disappear and get into trouble, it’s me Bane will come looking for.”

John snorted, chewing his sandwich.

Barsad grinned. “If I’m the babysitter, then you are the baby.”

“Okay relax. I got it. You watch me, and I get to come downstairs.”

“That’s right.”

John picked up another sandwich.

A man with shoulder length blond hair came over to Barsad and greeted him in another language, and it was only when he sat down next to Barsad that John noticed the man was much younger than the rest of Bane’s mercenaries; only a boy, really. Barsad was not by any means old, either; he was likely in his early to mid thirties. But this boy looked even younger than John, like he was in his early twenties.

A strange sense of pity came over John as he took in the blond’s boyish features. He looked much too young, in John’s opinion, to be part of such a dangerous gang. And he had a very specific look about him; John was adept at spotting orphans.

The boy grinned, and John gave him a small smile.

“You are looking okay,” the boy said in an accent heavier than Barsad’s.

John picked up another sandwich. “What does that mean?” He noticed Barsad was smirking to himself as he stared down at the table.

“The rest of us were thinking about how you would look now,” he said, gesturing widely to the empty room but John took it to mean the rest of the gang. “You’ve been up there three days.”

“Oh,” John said. “Yeah. Well, that wasn’t by choice.” As he should well know. Bane must sorely lack communication skills if half his men didn’t know what was going on.

“We didn’t think you’d be able to take that. All those days up there.” The boy blew out a whistle. “You are tougher than you look.”

John raised an eyebrow. “You couldn’t handle three days of isolation?” He wasn’t going to mention to the boy about the tv, which meant it wasn’t complete isolation, at least.

“Isolation?” The boy’s forehead creased. “I’m talking about fucking.”

A piece of bread got lodged in his throat and John coughed. When he found his breath again, he asked, “ _What_?”

The boy turned to Barsad, shrugging, as if to say he couldn’t communicate with an idiot like John. That’s when he noticed Barsad’s shoulders shaking. He was laughing! Silently laughing to himself, his cheeks getting red.

“What the hell is he talking about?” John demanded.

Barsad shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

“Yes I do, that’s why I asked you. What does he mean f—” He trailed off. Did he mean…? He couldn’t mean Bane…

The boy looked between Barsad and John with confusion written all over his face.

“Is that all you guys think about?” John rounded on the boy.

“They haven’t seen a woman in weeks,” Barsad said.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a woman.”

“Most of these men are never going to see a woman again, and they know this,” Barsad continued, ignoring him. “They have pledged themselves to Bane—to the cause. Their only concern is serving the brotherhood. Whatever women they could get in Gotham, they did. But now that we are on our way, they will not have another chance for a long time. Or they will die before that.”

“On our way to where?” he asked, seizing the opportunity. Of course, he didn’t expect Barsad to answer.

“You wanted to know what Marat meant.” Barsad shrugged. “That is it.”

“That doesn’t explain much.”

“It’s because they think you are sof—”

“ _Soft_ , right.” John rolled his eyes.

“Not soft,” Marat said. “Pretty.”

John clenched his fists in his lap.

Marat leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We thought… Since he ordered you to his room… And he did not want Yuri to touch you.”

“You thought wrong,” John said through clenched teeth.

Marat raised his eyebrows. “Maybe he has not found the time.” The boy grinned.

The air was suddenly thin and John found it hard to breathe. His mind reeled with new information. All this time he was sleeping in Bane’s bedroom, the men had thought Bane was fucking him. The thought made both anger and fear intertwine and clench at his chest.

Was that was Bane was planning on doing? Could that be the real reason Bane had brought up to his own room? John had foolishly thought it had been to protect him from the men’s manhandling, but now realization dawned on him and he saw how ridiculous and misled that was; Bane had no reason to protect him and he didn’t have a reason to give a shit if his men raped John or beat him up or did whatever they wanted to do.

In fact, John still had no idea why Bane was keeping him alive. Was it because he really did want to keep John around to sate his needs? Barsad had as much as said these men never got to have sex. So far he hadn’t touched John, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try eventually. As if to taunt him, the memory of last night rushed back to him: they had slept in the same bed. The thought now mortified him.

“You say it didn’t happen, but you blush like a bride,” Marat teased.

“Fuck off.”

Marsad took one of the sandwiches and then went back to lounging against the couch as he ate it. Eventually he was called away by another man wanting to speak with him.

“Why don’t they want to fuck _him_?” John asked. Marat was even younger and more ‘pretty’, not that John had ever considered himself so.

“He came to the Brotherhood as a child. They would not fuck him.”

Oh, of course; mercenaries with morals.

“You should let them think what they want to think,” Barsad added.

“What, that Bane is fucking me every night? No thanks.” He eyed the plate of sandwiches. There were still three left. “Definitely no thanks,” he said as he grabbed another one. The conversation might be disgusting but he’d been practically starved for three days, and he doubted much of anything could stamp out his appetite at this point.

“Yuri was angry he couldn’t have you. The men made a big deal about it. Bane only shut them up when he said you were his. Now no one will touch you.”

“But he hasn’t.”

“What does that matter? As long as they think so, they will not touch you again.”

John ripped off a bite savagely. He didn’t like the idea of having to trade his dignity for his safety. He didn’t like feeling intimidated. “What was that guy’s name? Yuri?”

“Yes.”

“Bane nearly choked him to death.”

Barsad nodded.

“Why?”

“Maybe he does want you for himself.” Barsad shrugged. “I do not concern myself with Bane’s business.”

John looked out onto the terrace where Bane still sat with King. All he could see of Bane from this angle were his broad shoulders.

 

 

X

 

Barsad only sat with him for a few more minutes before leaving to go do whatever it was he did for Bane. John was desperate to know more and he resolved to ask more questions the next time Barsad came to get him.

He sat on the couch for a long time and he decided it was possibly even more boring downstairs than it had been in the bedroom. No one spoke to him all day, so he found himself sitting in the same spot for hours. He didn’t try to escape, though the thought crossed his mind, pushing it aside as an impossibility. He had already determined to find out what Bane’s mission was and try to put a stop to it. So John sat quietly and observed the comings and goings of Bane’s men. Occasionally he saw others in suits or normal everyday clothes—as opposed to military gear—and he suspected these were King’s mobsters.

The men didn’t speak to him but they certainly did look at him, and the earlier conversation with Marat made him sharply aware of every glance. He wished these clothes weren’t so tight on him. He didn’t want to imagine what they might be thinking but he couldn’t help it, the thoughts assaulted his mind regardless.

Bane and King had not come back inside but left the terrace by the steps that led to the gardens. Bane’s figure towered over King’s as they walked around the side of the house. He wondered idly if Bane was going to be out “scouting” again, whatever that meant. Maybe he wouldn’t come back at all. Not that anything happened those nights he did sleep in the room with John. Even when he has slept in the bed with John, he didn’t even touch him.

Maybe Bane didn’t want him.

The thought came out of nowhere, and John shook his head. He was glad Bane didn’t want him. Maybe Bane didn’t give a shit about sex; maybe he wasn’t a man after all. Or, maybe he was getting it somewhere else. John realized he was now ruminating over Bane’s sex life and the surrealness of the situation made him question his sanity. He blamed it on being perpetually half-starved for three days; it was fucking with his head.

When Barsad finally did come back to collect him, John asked him where they were going and received stoic silence. He asked him how long they were staying here in the mansion and received more silence. When he asked why Bane thought Bruce Wayne was alive, Barsad told him to shut up and locked him in the room.

At least John was free of handcuffs again. The first thing he did was take a piss. Then, after milling about for a bit, he decided to shower just to pass the time. He was by no means tired after that arduous day of sitting on the couch.

He stayed in there a long time, letting the hot water steam up the room like he liked. When he came out, toweling his hair, he looked up and tripped over his own feet.

Bane was there, in the bedroom. What was he doing here? John thanked the lord silently that Bane was turned away from him and quickly wrapped the towel around his waist. Just in time, since Bane had heard him and turned around.

Every time John looked into that face, his heart seemed to stop. Bane was just as imposing without his vest and gear on. He had stripped down to just the black long-sleeved shirt, cargo pants, and boots. Was it really so late in the evening that Bane was getting ready to turn in? Didn’t he have any more scouting to do? John was not ready.

John walked to the chaise, where he had deposited his clothes. “I’ll just…” He cleared his throat. Bane wasn’t saying anything. He just stared intently and made John’s skin tingle.

 _Shit, shit, shit_. He shut the bathroom door and leaned against it. He reminded himself that Bane didn’t want him, that Bane hadn’t made a single move the entire time John had been here. His nerves were just going haywire because he was in a shitty situation and all his adrenaline was activated.

Bane not wanting him was good. It meant John was safe. And just the fact that he was hiding away like a scared little kid made anger boil in his chest. Sure, Bane was scary, but John was sick of being intimidated by him—and by his men! He wasn’t like that, he wasn’t a coward. The anger bubbling up inside him made him open the door, completely forgetting about getting dressed.

“If you’re going to fuck me, just fucking tell me.”

The only sound was the low murmur of the tv. Even Bane’s mask was quiet, and he couldn’t hear him breathe. What was he thinking? He knew what his men thought he was doing up here, it was like he might as well do it anyway, and yet he wasn’t.

John crossed the room. “I know what they’re saying. That you fuck me every night. Why are you telling them that and then not doing it?”

Something passed over Bane’s eyes. When he finally spoke, his voice was deeper than John had ever heard it, and it brought reality crashing back to him. “Is that what you want me to do?”

“Wh—I—No, of course not.”

Bane took a step closer, and there was suddenly very little space between them.

“I just mean,” John continued, forcing his voice to come out even, “what do you want from me?”

“You mean, do I desire you?” Bane asked with a hint of amusement.

A spike of something savage and hot ran through his gut, but he ignored it and demanded, “No, I mean what do you _want_ from me?”

“That, you will find out soon enough.”

“Why do you keep me in the dark? You might as well tell me, it’s not like I’m going anywhere!” When Bane didn’t answer, he pressed on, wondering how long it would take the lion to bite. “Why did you stop Yuri anyway? You should have just let him take me since you don’t want me. You don’t, do you? Marat said you wanted me for yourself, but I know that’s not true because we slept together last night and you didn’t even touch me.” Then he had a thought that gave him a twisted sense of pleasure. “Or maybe you just can’t.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “I bet your dick doesn’t even work. Maybe you need a machine to help you with tha–”

And then his back was against the wall out of nowhere and Bane was holding him up with a strong hand on his throat. Yet, the moment of fear passed in a flash and John was left with the feeling of triumph.

“If you wanted to see a demonstration, all you had to do was ask.” Bane’s voice was silky. It ran through John like water, leaving shivers in its wake. It was then he noticed that, sometime during that maneuver, his towel had slipped off.

Heat assaulted him like he never expected as he stood there clutching Bane’s elbows, one of Bane’s hands choking him while the other rooted itself to the wall at his side. He was completely naked, and Bane noticed. His gaze darkened and lines formed in his brow as he looked down at John’s body, his mechanical breaths coming harder than before. John’s cock brushed the fabric of Bane’s pants, and John realized he was hard. How that had happened, he couldn’t even think about. He couldn’t think at all. His body was doing things all its own, no longer consulting his brain on the matter. His cock was hard against Bane’s leg, and _Bane could feel it._

Bane released his hold on John’s throat just enough so that he could reach his thumb up and brush it against John’s bottom lip. And John’s lips parted. Why they did that, he couldn’t say either, it just felt like the natural thing to do. Bane’s thumb was large and rough and it stroked across his lip, and when it paused John breathed against it and wondered if Bane was going to put it in his mouth. Half wanted him to.

But Bane pulled his hand away only to reach over to the nightstand and rip open a drawer. He pulled out a bottle which John could only guess was lube. When Bane’s other hand reached into his pants, John’s heart started to pound in his chest. He knew what was coming but somehow couldn’t understand it either. It was just happening, and it just felt so damn good. The anticipation killed him, he had to see it, and when he looked down he exhaled hard at the sight of Bane’s cock. It was massive; long and thick with a large rounded head. He was fully hard and the head emerged from the foreskin. When Bane took it in hand, John closed his eyes and his entire body seemed to melt against the wall.

Bane tossed the lube on the bed and turned his attention to John, pushing his thighs apart easily—not that John could find it in himself to resist—and nudged his cock against the cleft of John’s cheeks. The back of his hand brushed John’s balls and sent electricity roaring through him. Then Bane placed both hands on John’s hips and, like he weighed nothing, lifted John a few inches off the ground. John reached up and held Bane’s shoulders for leverage. Bane had to reach down once to reposition himself at John’s hole, but when he found it, there was no stopping. He lowered John little by little onto his cock.

John couldn’t begin to describe the feeling of Bane’s cock breaching him, only that it felt impossible. It was clear Bane had generously slicked himself up, but his cock was just massive. John tried to help himself by spreading his legs more, but that only caused him to slip and the intrusion came faster, and he needed more leverage. Bane lifted him up higher and John wrapped his legs around Bane’s waist. Not only did this spread him more open but his cock pressed and rubbed against Bane’s abdomen. His precome soaked Bane’s shirt, making it slick enough that the up and down slide against it was pure pleasure. He shut his eyes tight and let that thrilling motion temper the increasing pain from the stretching. Bane’s cock was ripping him open. He was about to scream so he buried his face in Bane’s thick shoulder and bit down.

Bane half pushed and John half slid down onto his cock, until eventually he was seated on Bane’s full length. And then Bane started to move. He swung his hips and his cock moved inside John, who grunted into Bane’s shoulder. Bane held John’s hip in one hand and planted the other against the wall, and then he started to fuck him.

Bane fucked him hard. Eventually his ass got used to the length and girth of his cock and John even lost himself to the rhythm of it. He felt every thrust throughout his entire body, the pleasure tumbling out through his limbs. The burn was still there, but it was transformed into something delicious. John gave into it.

His own cock was massaged so well between them that he found himself reaching that sharp peak of climax very soon. He leaned his head back against the wall and tipped silently and open-mouthed over the edge. He could feel the spasms in his ass as the waves rushed over him.

Bane made a growling, deep-throated noise as his thrusts slowed down. His cock was being squeezed by John’s muscles as he rode his orgasm. Bane pushed into him deeper, pulling John onto his cock and using him for his own pleasure. He reached it soon after, his shoulders stiffening. He pinned John to the wall with the weight of his whole body as he came.

Moments passed during which John’s pulse attempted to return to normal. Bane was a furnace against him, pinning him in place. All he could do was catch his breath while holding onto Bane’s huge arms.

Eventually, Bane lowered him to the ground and slipped out of him. Hot wetness trickled down John’s thighs as he found his feet, his legs slightly trembling.

Bane’s cock was still half hard as he walked to the bathroom. “You can shower again after,” he said, his voice grittier than normal. A fleeting thought entered his head that Bane could have gone longer.

Awareness came back to John as abruptly as a slap to the face. He felt both sated and slightly nauseated. At the same time, a pang of hunger hit him so hard his stomach growled audibly.

What had he done?

He didn’t even move from that spot; Bane emerged from the shower and found him still leaning against the wall. John felt stuck, like if he moved then it had all been real. He had really done that.

Shirtless, his skin glistening with evidence of his shower, Bane walked over to the bed and pulled back the duvet. John watched as he half unlaced his boots and kicked them the rest of the way off.

A draft from somewhere in the room made John aware of the fact he was still naked, and he forced himself to move. He went to the bathroom not because Bane had told him to, but because he was cold, and sticky, and a shower was his only escape. He let the steam run for the second time that night.


	4. Chapter 4

Heavy knocking jolted him from his sleep. John rubbed his face—that tender part where his cheekbone pressed into rough fabric all night—and rolled off the chaise. He dragged his feet to the door and wrenched it open. Barsad stood there holding a paper bag.

“What? Don’t you have a key?” John went to get his jacket as Barsad stepped inside.

“Bane doesn’t want anyone being able to come in.”

John didn’t know what to make of this news, but images from last night rushed into his head. He turned away so that Barsad wouldn’t notice the flush of heat over his face. He belatedly noticed he was sore in places that were completely new to him.

When he looked up again, Barsad was eyeing him closely. No hint of that pervasive smirk. He thrust the paper bag at John.

John took it and fiddled with the edge. “What’s this?”

“Breakfast.”

John raised his eyebrows. His stomach growled as if on cue, and he all but ripped the bag apart. Inside was a solitary blueberry muffin, but it looked like the most delicious thing he’d ever seen. And it actually was the most delicious thing he’d seen, or tasted, in awhile. He took a savagely large bite.

“Hungry?” Barsad asked.

“You know I am.” He talked as he chewed. It then occurred to him that, again, he didn’t know quite what to make of this. “Is that why you took pity on me?”

“I didn’t.”

John fell silent as he chewed, the implication heavy in the air: it was obviously Bane who had sent Barsad out to get him food. Barsad probably didn’t appreciate being used as an errand boy, especially not for the likes of John.

“Well, thanks.”

“We are leaving in an hour. Get your things ready.”

John barked out a laugh. “Yeah, right, funny. All my things.” He gestured to the clothes he was wearing. “I think I got them.”

Barsad nodded and left without another word.

He came back to collect him an hour later, cuffing John and leading him downstairs. Once outside and in front of the row of cars, Barsad pulled out another black hood. John was guided into the car. He felt other people squeeze in around him and he wondered if it was the same two guys from the ride over here—Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum—though of course, he couldn’t see so he had no way of telling. He had seen those two milling around the mansion, so it was possible.

Bane was probably in another car like before. Probably in the lead car. Not that he cared where Bane was, and frankly he was never so glad to be away from him.

The car rolled into motion and as it picked up speed, so did John’s thoughts. He might as well admit it to himself and just face it: they had fucked. Or rather, Bane had fucked him. The reality of it hit him like a brick wall. What had come over him? It could only be explained as a moment of weakness, a result of his perpetual hunger and stress. He had been a prisoner now for five days.

Only five days! It felt more like a month. But really it hadn’t even been a week and he’d already succumbed to… whatever the fuck that had been.

It was probably just the result of pent-up frustration. He hadn’t rubbed one out in days and his body was tense and racing with stress hormones. So when Bane touched him like that, he had just reacted with all that pent-up energy. Just to blow off steam. He had needed to.

Every bump on the highway reminded John of what he’d taken up his ass, and a jolt of shame inevitably followed.

They drove for endless hours. The men sometimes spoke to each other in their language, sometimes ended up laughing—about what, John didn’t know. He wondered what they were talking about just out of sheer boredom. They only stopped once and let him piss, but then it was back on the road. With the hood on, he had no idea if it was still day or if night had fallen. He’d have probably fallen asleep sooner if his stomach wasn’t aching.

Judging by the movements of the car, they were in some traffic. Barsad was complaining avidly, John could tell by the agitation in his voice. Outside, there was a lot of beeping, a lot of bustle, and they made frequent pauses and turns. They were driving through a city.

Soon after, they stopped again. The sound of the door opening was followed by shouted commands and someone pushing and prodding John to move. He shifted down the seat, but before he got far, someone pulled him back again by the shirt.

“Almost forgot,” said the gruff voice.

The bag was pulled from his head. John blinked and squinted; there was barely any light, but he had been sitting in darkness for too long.

His handcuffs were also removed before he was allowed to step out of the car. He found himself in an underground parking garage lit with white fluorescent lights and reeking of moldy damp. They were in an isolated, underground level. But of the number of black SUVs in Bane’s entourage, only one parked nearby in another corner of the lot. Marat walked over from that one.

He addressed Barsad, who John just now noticed was standing behind him. He asked him something in their language and Barsad nodded.

“Come,” Barsad said, shoving John’s back.

The two groups from each car went together to the elevators, but Barsad, Marat, and John went into one alone.

“Where are we going?” John asked. Unsurprisingly, he got no answer.

 

X

 

When the elevator doors opened, they emerged into the lobby of a busy hotel. Asking where they were would be pointless because Barsad was in a tight-lipped mood, so John looked around. Rows of slot machines in one corner near the front-desk. Groups of laughing women wearing short skirts and bachelorette party sashes. A bellhop in a red and black uniform pushing a gleaming trolley piled high with Louis Vuitton luggage.

Barsad grabbed him by the back collar and pulled him aside. His scowl was more dangerous than John had seen it yet. Barsad spoke low and close to his face. “If you try anything, anything at all, we will find you and we will kill you.”

John stared back, jaw clenched. They were in the most public place they had ever been since they’d abducted him, with loads of opportunities for him to try and escape. He could scream for help right now.

But John had already decided what he was going to do.

“Don’t worry,” he said. He looked at Marat, who was glaring at him just as fiercely. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s right,” Barsad said.

With Barsad next to him and Marat behind him, his two bodyguards, they exited the hotel. A man in a suit held the doors open for them. Outside, the air was colder than down in the parking garage, and throngs of people milled about; a red neon sign in the distance revealed their location.

“Niagara Falls?”

Barsad shoved him to keep moving. “What can I say? Bane likes to gamble.”

As they walked down the street, the aroma of burgers cooking made his mouth water. Meat on a grill. God, it was heavenly. He stared longingly at the restaurant, and thought he might attack the person leaving it with fries in their hand.

“Is that what you want?” Barsad asked. Before John could answer, Barsad pulled him by the arm and, miraculously, led him through the doors.

“You’re not serious?” First a muffin that morning and now a burger. “I feel spoiled,” he joked, and then realized he didn’t want to jinx it so he shut up.

It was the best burger he’d ever tasted in his life. They sat in a booth and ordered double bacon cheeseburgers with fries, and John took bite after ravenous bite of his trying not to think about how surreal this felt. Maybe fucking Bane was worth it.

He paused mid-bite, unable to believe what he had just thought.

He wasn’t stupid: he had Bane to thank for this meal. Just like breakfast earlier. Bane had told his minions to feed him, like he was some kind of pet, so they brought him a muffin and a burger. All because he’d let Bane fuck him?

‘Let him’ was an understatement: he knew Bane could take him by force whenever he wanted, a fact that sent shivers down his spine. But the truth was, they had fucked and now John was getting seemingly regular meals, whereas before he’d been pretty much neglected to the point of starving.

His stomach dropped sickly and he lost all desire to eat anymore. Setting his burger down, he thought about what was happening. Fucking Bane had led to… what… privileges? It was probably the reason Bane was making sure he was being treated better now. To teach John that if he gave in and played the good little whore, he wouldn’t be sorry about it.

Or Bane just wanted to flex his muscles, in a sense. Prove how powerful he was, and alternately, how powerless John was. Bane had complete control—he could starve John, or he could grant him food and clothes and a comfortable place to sleep. John’s life was in his hands.

“You’re not hungry now?” Marat was staring at him while chewing a fry.

John cleared his throat. “No.”

Marat reached over and grabbed John’s burger. John sighed as he watched the kid start in on it, having already finished his own.

“I’m guessing we’re staying at that hotel tonight?” He figured he might as well make an attempt at conversation. It would be better than staring at each other in silence for the next few hours. Of course, neither of them answered. Why would they? He might as well be talking to himself. “Maybe I could share your room, Marat.”

Marat’s eyes speared him. “No, you don’t. Bane will kill me.”

“I didn’t mean… like that.” John’s fists clenched on the table as he tried not to blush. “But does that mean I have to stay with Bane again?”

“Trust me,” Barsad said, “you are safer with Bane than with anyone else.”

“Even me.” Marat waggled his eyebrows.

John sneered and rolled his eyes. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“Why you doubt?”

“Well, you see, I can’t really take on Bane.” John clarified just to piss him off: “Fight him.” He smiled, relishing in Marat’s thinning lips. “Now you, on the other hand, I am pretty sure I can take on.” He leaned in. “You know. Fight you.”

Masat’s chest shook as he chuckled. “Are you serious?”

“Fuck yeah, I am.”

“You think you can fight me?”

“I know I can.”

“Oh, Brother,” he turned to Barsad. “Please, let’s do this.”

Barsad was leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed, grinning. “You will be sorry, cop.”

Oh, shit, were they really going to do this? “Wait, wait—”

“He’s already chickening out!” Marat laughed.

“No, I’m not. I just want to make it more interesting.”

Barsad raised an eyebrow.

“So, Marat and I fight. If I win, you tell me where we’re going.”

“Sure!” Marat said, then turned to Barsad. “He will not win.”

“And if you lose?” Barsad asked.

John bit his lip, taking a deep breath. He didn’t want to know what they would come up with if he lost. But it couldn’t be that bad, could it? He already knew there was no chance they’d try to fuck him. Like they kept saying, Bane would not be happy with anyone who laid a hand on him. Marat was definitely scared of Bane; and even though Barsad didn’t seem scared exactly, he respected Bane enough not to cross him.

“So where are we doing this?” He sat up in his seat, straightening his shoulders.

 

X

 

Martial arts? He had never learned that in the Academy. His face hit the pavement of the parking garage almost as soon as he got into fighting stance. It seems they were right: he was no match for anyone trained in the Brotherhood. And yet he wouldn’t learn his lesson, kept pushing himself onto his feet, even after the fourth flattening. The sting of his skin didn’t match the sting of his pride.

They laughed as they carried him back to the elevators and all the way up to one of the rooms, which John took to be Marat and Barsad’s. Their suitcases lay open, shirts, boxers, and packets of bullets strewn across the two queen-sized beds. Barsad disappeared in the bathroom and the faucet went on, and then he emerged again with a white bath towel soaked in warm water. Tossing it at John, he instructed him to wipe the blood from his scraped cheek and elbows.

“Or don’t.” Barsad shrugged. “It will not matter to anyone. They will be looking at other things anyways.” Marat snickered behind him.

That’s how John found himself naked in front of a room full of seedy men. Well, almost naked. He had no idea where they’d found the black sequined thong, but this was a casino town. His heart battered his chest as he held his chin up and refused to look downtrodden by any of this. If they thought they were going to humiliate him, he sure as hell wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of seeing it on his face.

The tiny room only fit four round poker tables all crammed one on top of the other, and there was so much smoke he doubted anyone could see him clearly at all. He set his jaw against the cheers and whoops of the strange men. Not all of them were part of Bane’s crew. He spotted Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum in the corner by the makeshift bar, surveying the room, but they were only two of a handful of mercenaries. Most of the men sitting at the tables taking part in the games were older men sporting brushed and gelled mustaches and not-quite-expensive looking suits. Of course, Bane stood out a head above everyone, even sitting down.

He seemed to be straddling the entire table; which was admittedly small. With roaring laughter, he threw a handful of poker chips at the face of the man sitting across from him.

“If you hide any more cards up your sleeve, I’ll cut your wrist right off. And then where will you hide things?” Among shouted remarks and laughter, Bane lifted his head and that’s when he saw John standing there. “Oh.” The syllable dragged mechanically through his mask. “What have we here?” He threw his arms wide, almost scalping the man beside him. “Behold—the cop!”

The room burst with laughter so energetic, John felt it vibrate within him. Or maybe that was the flush of heat that rose to his face and neck. He straightened his shoulders and held Bane’s gaze. The eyes of every man in the room bore into him, but none measured up to the the weight of Bane’s stare.

John hated him. His anger rippled through him, and he focused on that instead of the catcalls that commenced when more people noticed his nakedness. He wished he could wrap his hands around Bane’s thick throat and find the strength to crush it. Or rip off his mask—he pictured himself tearing the mask from Bane’s face, what a mess his mouth and chin must look like underneath, tubes spidering from his throat and nostrils to help him breathe. He pictured those tubes snapping and Bane choking as he fell to the ground.

Marat was pulling on his arm, and John’s mind came back to the present. He went with Marat, who took him to Bane’s side.

Bane’s eyes slid over John’s torso, and lower. His hand reached out, moving around John’s hips, and by instinct, John hit it away before Bane’s fingers reached his arse. There was some intake of breath around him coupled by amused chuckling.

Bane’s eyes hardened, and his hand clenched into a fist. “The cop is still too proud to let anyone touch him,” he announced to the room. There were jeers. “The next person who beats me can fuck him on this table.”

 _Shit._ John thought he would faint. There was definitely not enough air in the room, and far too much cigar smoke, and he suddenly felt lightheaded.

Again, Bane was proving just how powerful he was, and making sure John knew it, unequivocally.

John had to stand there and watch the game from over Bane’s shoulder. Every time Bane got dealt a less than stellar hand, his heart raced a million miles. Any time now, Bane was going to lose. He had to, it was statistics. And then one of these disgusting, dirty old men seated around the table would fuck him.

John tried not to look at them, but it was hard when they kept looking at up him with amusement and hunger in their eyes. He couldn’t let himself get bent over this rickety table, taking it up the ass from one of these people; but he had no choice if Bane commanded it. The image made him want to throw up, and he was sort of glad he had barely touched that burger earlier.

“One more round!” Bane said, and there was fist pounding and general assent from the table.

John couldn’t bare to look at the cards, and yet he couldn’t turn away without his stomach churning. Every hand made his pulse spike. Would this be the hand that lost? Would that other man’s hand contain the winning combination that beat out Bane, and that meant sure humiliation for John? Every second inched and John was crawling out of his skin.

But Bane wouldn’t lose. Round after round, it was like it was rigged.

And then it hit him—of course—of course it was rigged!

Hot, nervous laughter bubbled up inside him with the pace of a freight train, and he felt hysterical. He was relieved, and shocked at his own stupidity, and choking on smoke to the point where he could taste it, acrid and stale on his tongue. His eyes stung with it. He needed fresh air.

He started coughing, or choking, or both. Marat was at his side instantly, slapping him on the back and holding him up with his other hand.

Bane didn’t look up from reorganizing his cards. “Take him up.”

 

X

 

Bane had a penthouse suite all to himself. John didn’t know why he’d expected anything else. For someone on the run from the law, Bane’s life didn’t seem to be all that hard-pressed or devoid of any luxuries. He lived better than most of the middle class of Gotham, that was for sure. Mob connections did that, apparently.

Marat deposited him in the suit and shook his head.

“You should not offer to fight anyone else, cop,” he said.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” John gritted out. “Where are my clothes?” He was in no mood to play the humble hostage. After that scare, thinking he was going to be publicly fucked by a strange man in an underground gambling ring, his nerves were pretty much shot.

“In my room, where you left them.”

“Bring them to me.”

Marat walked up to him. “You do not make demands.”

John shoved him in the chest. “Yes, I fucking will.”

“Have you forgotten your lesson already?”

The laughter did escape him then. Marat actually leaned away from him, alarmed. But what were Marat’s threats after tonight? Clearly Bane wasn’t going to share him, and he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to kill him. So what could Marat do: beat him up? John didn’t give a fuck.

“Go ahead,” he said, stepping right into Masat’s face. “Hit me, mess me up. If you think Bane’s okay with that.”

The crack in his nose was deafening, and he stumbled, his vision going black.

“FUCK!” He pressed at his nose with the back of his hand.

“Get a towel. You will bleed on the carpet.”

With that, Marat left him to tend to himself. He stumbled to the en suite and ran the water, splashing it over his face. After careful inspection, he determined his nose wasn’t broken, just bleeding profusely. He managed to get it to stop after a while.

It wasn’t long before the door opened again. Hopefully Marat had felt bad for him and brought him his clothes. John sighed as he prepared for whatever verbal sparring he was about to face, and he stomped out of the bathroom.

He inhaled sharply when he saw it was not Marat. It was Bane.

“What are you doing here?” John spat.

Bane strolled in. “This is my room.” He took a rasping breath as he neared, and his voice wheezed. “You know the arrangement.”

John snorted, holding his ground. “Oh, trust me, I know.” Clenching his fists at his sides, he added. “You want me with you so you can fuck me whenever you want.” The words were easier to say than he thought they would be. He didn’t stumble over the word ‘fuck,’ or gag in disgust when it left his lips.

“Not quite.” Bane inhaled deeply, and it was then John realized something was wrong. It sounded high and whistley, like air being expelled through a straw. He inhaled again like he was being strangled.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Oh, darling,” Bane said, eyes crinkling with mirth, “you care.”

John huffed.

Bane reached up behind his head, his fingers working, and then there was a clicking sound. The mask unhinged and drooped all at once. John couldn’t take his eyes away from the sight as he realized that this was a moment he never actually thought he’d see. He had imagined ripping it off only hours ago—imagined the tubing that delivered oxygen or anesthetic or whatever it was that made the mask so pertinent to Bane’s existence—but now he was going to see it for himself.

The was no sickly tubing. The mask fell clean from Bane’s face, unencumbered by any of that. Bane held it in his hand and took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling.

The only thing unusual about his face was the scar that traversed, like a backwards C, from his crooked nose to intersect his lips. But there was nothing monstrous about it.

Bane was just a man.

A man who had cheekbones and a jawline and lips. A man who looked hardly over thirty-three.

“As I was saying.” He dropped the mask on a nearby table as though he had just taken off his hat. John was mainly entranced by his voice, deep and rich once it lost the mechanical edge. “I’m only going to fuck you if you want it.”

It was like Bane’s voice finally set free made John’s voice stick in his throat. “I…” He cleared his throat. “You thought I wanted it?”

He didn’t have to say ‘last night’; the words hung in the air between them. He knew Bane understood exactly by the way his eyebrows met sharply in the middle.

Bane stepped so close that John had to look up at him. His massive chest, all the muscle underneath his black t-shirt, almost pressed against him. John could feel the anger radiating off him.

Bane bared his teeth. “You smell like cigar butts.”

That same tickling rose in John’s chest and he couldn’t help it, he started to laugh. Now that his mask was off, Bane could smell him. God, what was it like to live a life without smell. Even just the smell of Bane, so close to him, made memories of last night resurface, and John felt them through his entire body.

Bane stepped forward, making his pulse spike, and John stepped back. But Bane kept walking, herding him into the bathroom. John reached out and grabbed the edge of the massive porcelain tub, which stood in the middle of the tiled floor. Bane grabbed his hips.

John’s breath left him in a rush as Bane lifted him like he weighed nothing. In a whirlwind, Bane turned him and practically pushed him into the shower. The water came on, pouring over John’s head and back, stinging hot against his skin. When had that happened? And when had his hands found Bane’s shirt and started pulling, revealing inch by inch of soft skin. John ran his hands over his stomach as he pushed the fabric up Bane’s torso, up his chest. Bane grabbed the hem and pulled it the rest of the way off while John ran his hands back down again. It took only moments longer for Bane’s pants to come off too. His cock laid against his thigh, swollen and flushed.

“You don’t want it?” Bane asked.

John struggled to breathe in the steam that surrounded him. The leaden weight of desire pooled in his gut, making his cock harden by the second, but his mind and his body were stuck in a stalemate. Even as he watched the girth increase in Bane’s cock, he said through clenched teeth, “No.”

“Then we won’t.” Bane took up the bar of soap from the ledge. The way he turned it rhythmically in his hand to lather it made John’s head spin. “You still smell like smoke.”

Then Bane’s hands were on him, strong and demanding, sending sharp tingling want through John’s skin. He scrubbed the bar of soap all over John’s body, following with his other hand and massaging circularly to create a lather. His thumb spent long moments on John’s nipple, running over it back and forth.

John’s cock was raging hard and pressed into Bane’s leg. He looked up at Bane, at the way his mouth fell open and his eyes darkened. Before he knew it, Bane’s face came nearer, and then their mouths met.

He kissed Bane like all his hunger from the past few days manifested in this. He couldn’t think anymore, not when their tongues met and it felt so damn good. Nothing could stop him now, not with the way he wanted it.

Bane was pulling on the black thong John wore, sliding it down his legs, and John kicked the ridiculous, soaked thing off. His cock freed, he ground into Bane’s leg as they deepened the kiss, letting Bane pull him in by the small of back so that his whole body arched against him. The water that rained over them made the slide of their bodies slick and fluid.

Bane’s hands moved to John’s cheeks. A groan escaped John as Bane cupped his ass.

“I’m not going to to fuck you,” Bane said.

“Good,” John said, his voice low in his throat. Then his eyebrows rose sharply.

Bane’s fingers slid together, into his crease, and pulled his cheeks apart. John’s jaw dropped and nerves spiked in his chest, but Bane said he wasn’t going to fuck him. He glanced down and saw that Bane was still only half hard, which was insane considering how turned on John felt; he was going crazy.

Bane found his entrance, and his soapy fingers slid up and down John’s rim.

John clenched Bane’s shoulders, digging his nails into his skin. He couldn’t help but groan out loud as Bane continued to soap his ass, rubbing and massaging just around his entrance. He couldn’t even stop his hips from pushing back against Bane’s hand. His body screamed at him for telling Bane not to fuck him, because right now that was all John wanted to do.

But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t let himself go there. If Bane was giving him a choice, John had to hold out.

This… Bane playing with his ass. This wasn’t fucking. Not exactly.

Bane turned him around and John slammed his hands up on the tiled wall of the shower. He heard Bane fall to his knees, which could only mean one thing. One glorious, mind-shattering thing. Almost on reflex, John parted his legs. Rivulets of water ran between his cheeks and rinsed the soap away, down his legs.

And suddenly Bane’s tongue was on him. His lips were pressed against John’s entrance, puckering against it like he was giving it a kiss. John dipped his head and exhaled hard, trying not to make too many desperate, embarrassing noises. But what Bane was doing was driving all inhibitions from him, and all he really wanted to do was thrust his ass out more and tell Bane to keep going. Bane’s tongue slid across his rim, followed quickly by the press of his lips. His hands squeezed John’s cheeks as he parted them.

And then Bane was kissing him properly. John could feel it, the way his lips moved, sucking on his rim and alternating with tongue. He could have been kissing John’s mouth.

John keened and banged his forehead against the tiles. His cock ached, he was so hard. The streaming water washed away his precome, which leaked consistently from Bane’s attentions.

When Bane pulled away, John wanted to scream at him.

Oh, but what came next was so much better. He inhaled sharply as fingers probed him, teasing his entrance but never going inside.

Bane wasn’t going to fuck him, but he was going to eat his ass and finger him until John spiraled into insanity. He jutted his ass out, offering himself to the mercy of Bane’s hands.

A growl escaped Bane’s throat and he leaned in close to John’s ear. “I enjoy seeing you like this cop.” He pressed just the tip of one finger past John’s tight muscles, sending waves of need through John’s body. “I like to see you play the whore.”

John wanted to resist, to deny such an insinuation, but he couldn’t form words. If anything, his cock leaked more, desperate to be touched.

“When I fuck you again, you will ask for it.”

And Bane shoved two fingers into him without any more pretense, making John arch and cry out. The ache felt so good, lighting him up from the inside.

He reached down for his cock, needing to stroke, but Bane slapped his hand away. He took up John’s cock instead, wrapping his fist around it firmly. John couldn’t help the moan that escaped his throat. It just felt amazing. Bane’s fingers fucking him from behind while he stroked John’s cock in the same rhythm. His hand slid over John’s sensitive skin, wringing sounds from him that burned his ears and caused Bane to chuckle lightly.

Almost as soon as Bane touched his prostate, John’s body tensed up all over and his balls drew up tight. His jaw fell slack as he came, his voice strangled and raw, his hips pushing back against Bane’s hand for more. As if he knew, Bane mercifully let go of his too-sensitive cock and sped up his other hand. He fucked the last moans from John’s throat.

John slumped against the tile, unsure if his knees would hold him. But Bane’s arm came up around his waist, pulling him back.

He let Bane manhandle him out of the shower. The water was still running, and the entire room was steam. Bane unhooked a fluffy white bathrobe from the door and wrapped John in it.

Somehow he was back in the room, on the bed, laid out among countless pillows.

He couldn’t help but notice that Bane’s cock looked just the same as before. Half hard, bobbing against his thighs. Why hadn’t he come? And why the fuck did John care? His own fucking orgasm was bad enough, because he wasn’t supposed to get turned on from Bane touching him. He was supposed to hate Bane. And he did. He despised him—he was a monster.

With the face, and lips and tongue and beauty, of a man. John shoved his head into the pillow; he might as well suffocate himself now.

When he looked up again, Bane was clipping the mask back into place. His brow was smooth again, and John realized just how uptight he had been the past hour. But he had thought just that was because of… well. Something else.

Apparently it had been because Bane has needed his mask. It struck him then that Bane’s lack of erection and his lack of mask could have something to do with one another.

“Why did you take it off?”

Bane turned to him, his face back as the monster, covered half in metal. “It needed to clear of the smoke.”

“You need it to breathe. But how did you…” Regretting this line of questioning, John turned his head away, licking his lips.

“Breathing requires effort.” A metallic exhale. “And my body is damaged.”

“That is hard to believe,” John said, taking in the firm bulk of him; and ignoring the shiver that ran down to his cock again almost instantly.

Bane chuckled. It wasn’t the same, nowhere near as melodic, as his real voice, which John found himself already missing. “One day, I will tell you my story.” He turned toward the bathroom and this time shut the door behind him.

One day. Those words left both intrigue and despair in their wake. They meant John was safe as far as his life was concerned, since Bane clearly had no desire to kill him, nor was he likely to harm him. Somehow, John believed he wouldn’t. His training was telling him to remain suspicious, but something deeper inside him knew he was, more or less, no longer in immediate danger.

At the same time, ‘one day’ could be a long time from now. How long were they traveling? The urgent desire to find out everything he could about their mission returned forcefully. There were still questions he needed answered: where were they were going, and even more so, what was the truth about Bruce Wayne?

This thing with Bane—he couldn’t let it turn into a pattern. He had to keep his wits about him.

He stared at the shut door and wondered if Bane was taking care of himself now. He pictured Bane jerking off, and the image left him hot all over again. It was a bad train of thought. He shook it from his head, which he rested on the pillow. When Bane came back he would ask him more about his mask. Forget ‘one day’, he didn’t have time for that. He wanted to know now. If he could stay awake long enough.


End file.
